“Good,” I said. “Now we can begin.”

Alden set a heavy leather portfolio on the mahogany table.

He didn’t look at Graham or Celeste.

His collar was damp, and his fingers trembled as he unbuckled the brass clasp of his case.

“Alden, we are in the middle of a private closing,” Graham said, his voice rising.

“The closing is over,” I said.

I reached into my briefcase and pulled out a thick sheaf of blue-backed paper.

The paper was old, but the notary’s stamp at the bottom was bright and clear.

I placed it flat on the table directly in front of Marisol Keene.

“What is this?” Marisol asked, her sharp eyes scanning the top page.

“That is a certified copy of the Blackthorn Ridge conservation easement,” I said.

“It was filed in the county archives thirty-five years ago by my grandmother, Eleanor.”

Celeste laughed, a sharp, dry sound that cut through the quiet room.

“Eleanor was losing her mind at the end,” Celeste said. “That old paper doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means everything,” Alden said softly.

He pulled a matching document from his own portfolio and laid it down beside mine.