Inside lay a stack of thick papers, tied with a piece of dirty kitchen twine.

Underneath the stack sat a black leather ledger.

I reached in and pulled the papers out first.

The smell of damp basement and old, sour ink filled my nose.

I untied the rough twine and spread the papers on the floor.

The top document was a land deed for a property on the north side of Oakhill.

I recognized the address instantly.

It was the old Miller farm, a property that had been abandoned for three years.

But the names on the deed were wrong.

The owner’s signature looked crude, like a traced copy made by an unsteady hand.

Beneath it, a notary stamp from a county that did not exist in Ohio was pressed into the thick paper.

I turned to the next document.

It was another deed, this one for the vacant lot next to my own breakfast stall near the highway.

The buyer’s name was printed in bold, black letters: Thomas Vance.

My husband.

He had never mentioned buying land to me.