The ink was faded, but the letters were clear.

*William Bellamy Mercer.*

“He wasn’t just a relative,” Lydia whispered, looking at me. “He was the sole owner of the north ridge.”

“And Warren knew that?” I asked.

“Warren has been paying the taxes on that specific parcel under a dummy corporation for forty years,” she said.

The kitchen door swung open behind us, and Marcus stepped into the hall, his face dark with anger.

“Get out of my house,” Marcus said to Lydia.

Lydia didn’t flinch. She looked at the deputy behind her, then back to Marcus.

“Mr. Mercer, you are being served with a civil summons for fraud,” she said.

She reached into her bag for another set of papers, but before she could hand them to him, my phone began to vibrate in my pocket.

I pulled it out and looked at the screen.

It was an unknown number, but the area code was from Richmond.

I slid my thumb across the glass and held the phone to my ear.

“Hello?” I said.

The line was quiet for a second, then a man’s voice, raspy and low, spoke.