“They did it in your hometown,” he said. “In West Virginia.”

“Yes,” I said. “Before the fire. Before everything was taken from us.”

“If they were married, your mother was his legal wife,” Nathan said. “And you are his rightful heir.”

He looked up at me, his eyes dark with determination.

“We need the original documents,” he said. “The ones Eleanor tried to burn.”

“There is an old bank in my town,” I said. “The local branch where my mother kept her private papers.”

“We go to West Virginia,” Nathan said.

We left at dawn.

The drive took us south, away from the manicured lawns of Greenwich.

The highway stretched through the mountains, the trees turning a deep, dark green.

The air grew cooler and smelled of pine and woodsmoke.

By late afternoon, we crossed the state line into West Virginia.

We drove down into the valley where my old town lay.

The coal mines had closed years ago, leaving the main street quiet and gray.

Many of the storefronts were boarded up with weathered plywood.

We pulled up to a small, red-brick building with tall arched windows.