The yellow blade of the bulldozer had sliced through a layer of dark topsoil.

A row of rough, uncut fieldstones had been overturned and pushed into a pile.

They were the simple, unmarked headstones of the people who had built Mercer House.

One of the stones was cracked in half, revealing the pale grey clay beneath it.

“This is desecration,” Lydia Crane said, taking a photograph with her phone.

Marcus stepped toward her, his fists clenched at his sides.

“This is a minor zoning dispute,” Marcus said. “My lawyers will have this cleared up by morning.”

“No, they won’t,” I said.

“You don’t know anything,” Marcus hissed at me. “You inherited a key and a bunch of old papers.”

“I know Warren Bellamy is terrified,” I said.

“Warren is a coward,” Marcus said.

“The county has already notified Wexler Stone,” Lydia Crane said, looking up from her clipboard.

Marcus froze, his hand stopping halfway to his pocket.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“We sent a formal notice to their corporate headquarters an hour ago,” Lydia said.