He listened for a moment, his face turning a dark, mottled red.

“You can’t just freeze the escrow account,” he shouted.

He slammed the phone down onto the counter, nearly chipping the tile.

“Marcus,” Aunt Caroline whispered, her voice trembling. “What is happening?”

Marcus didn’t look at her. He turned his glare onto me as I walked into the room.

“You,” he spat, pointing a finger at my chest. “You’ve been talking to that county attorney.”

“Wexler Stone pulled out, Marcus,” I said quietly.

I walked over to the table and set the silver pocket watch down in front of Aunt Caroline.

A clump of wet river clay fell from the chain, staining the polished wood.

Aunt Caroline stared at the watch, her eyes widening as she recognized the Mercer crest.

“Where did you get this?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

“The bulldozer dug it up on the north ridge,” I said. “Inside an iron box that was buried beneath the old graves.”

I turned the watch over so the scratched initials faced her.

“W. B. M.,” I read aloud. “William Bellamy Mercer.”