She unrolled a thick sheet of yellowed parchment onto the table, weighting the corners with a bronze paperweight and a brass candlestick.

It was the 1892 survey map of the Mercer estate, drawn in fading blue ink.

“This is the original land grant and deed of trust,” I said, pointing to the shaded area on the north ridge.

“My grandfather made sure I understood what these lines meant.”

Marcus stepped closer, squinting at the map. “An old piece of paper doesn’t change the current zoning.”

“It does when it contains a perpetual covenant,” Lydia said calmly.

“The 1892 trust strictly prohibits any transfer, sale, or commercial development of the burial grounds.”

“The covenant was dissolved in the 1950 restructuring,” Warren Bellamy said, his voice cracking slightly.

“I have the court order in my files.”

“You have a document, Warren,” I said, opening my laptop. “But it isn’t a legal order.”

I turned the screen toward him.

The video on the screen was grainy, shot from the security camera installed above the county archives doorway three nights ago.

It showed Warren Bellamy, carrying a flashlight, walking out of the records room with a manila folder.

Behind him, Marcus Mercer was waiting in the shadows of the hallway, taking the folder and sliding it into his coat.

“That is county property,” Lydia Crane said, looking directly at Warren.

“Removing historical deed books from the archives is a class six felony.”

Aunt Caroline gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Warren, what did you do?”

Warren’s face went completely pale, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Marcus didn’t flinch, though his jaw tightened until the muscle twitched.

“This is a bluff,” Marcus said, his voice dropping to a low hiss. “A cheap camera angle proves nothing.”

“We have the digital login logs too, Marcus,” Lydia said. “And the original 1892 deed is already flagged in the state database.”