I walked out of the kitchen and into the grand foyer, my boots leaving muddy tracks on the hardwood.

I opened the massive oak door to the cold night air.

Lydia Crane stood on the porch, her hair damp from the river fog.

A deputy stood a few steps behind her, his hand resting near his belt.

“Is Marcus here?” Lydia asked, stepping into the warmth of the foyer.

“He’s in the kitchen,” I said.

She handed me the manila envelope she was holding.

“This is the official complaint from Wexler Stone,” she said. “The injunction has been granted.”

I took the heavy envelope, the paper feeling thick and cold in my hands.

“What else did they find, Lydia?” I asked.

Lydia looked toward the kitchen, then back at me, her eyes dark with concern.

“We searched Warren’s office archives,” she said.

She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of parchment, yellowed with age.

“We found the original land grant from 1864,” she said.

She unfolded it on the small table in the hall, pointing to a signature at the bottom.