“I have the family ledger from 1890,” I said. “It lists every burial on the north ridge by name, date, and plot number.”

I heard a sharp intake of breath.

“And I have a signed agreement from five years ago proving the estate knew the graves were there when they tried to rezone the land,” I added.

“Are you telling me you have proof of a deliberate cover-up?” Sarah asked.

“Yes,” I said. “And I am going to photograph every page and send it to you right now.”

“Why are you doing this, Clara?” she asked. “It will ruin your cousin’s development plans.”

“Marcus doesn’t care about this land,” I said. “And I don’t care about his debts.”

“If we file this with the state registrar tonight, we can secure a permanent preservation order,” Sarah said.

“That’s exactly what I want,” I said.

I hung up and laid the ledger flat on the mahogany table.

Using my phone’s camera, I took clear, high-resolution photographs of the old handwritten pages.

I captured the names of the workers, the sketches of the headstones, and the exact coordinates of the boundary lines.