“Clara, please,” Caroline whispered, her voice cracking. “Marcus told me we would lose the entire house if I didn’t sign it.”

“You let them build over our own history,” I said, closing the ledger with a dull thud.

“I didn’t think anyone would find out,” she said.

“The descendants of the people who built this place have a right to know,” I said.

I picked up my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found Sarah Harrison’s name.

Sarah’s grandfather had been one of the last tenant farmers to live on the lower ridge.

I pressed call and waited as the line rang three times.

“Hello?” Sarah’s voice was cautious.

“Sarah, it’s Clara Mercer,” I said.

“Clara,” she said, her tone instantly hardening. “If you’re calling about the development project, my answer is still the same. We will fight the county.”

“I’m not calling to fight you,” I said. “I’m calling to give you the ammunition you need.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

“What kind of ammunition?” Sarah asked.