We barely had enough savings to cover our winter heating bills.

Yet here were papers claiming he owned three different plots of land in the county.

I picked up the black ledger.

I flipped it open to the middle pages.

The pages were covered in Thomas’s neat, slanted handwriting.

He had listed dozens of local properties, each with a dollar amount and a date next to it.

Some of the names belonged to my regular breakfast customers.

These were elderly people who had lived in Oakhill for their entire lives.

Next to several names, he had written the word “Transferred” in dark red ink.

My skin went cold.

The knocking on the front door started again, faster and louder this time.

“Open this door, Kiera, or I’ll kick it off the hinges!” the man roared.

I ignored him and reached back into the bottom of the box.

My fingers touched something small, stiff, and glossy.

It was a photograph.

I pulled it out and held it up to the dim light of the living room lamp.

It was a color print, slightly creased at the bottom corner.