Trevor leaned over and whispered something in Kelsey’s ear, his jaw tight.

His face had gone very pale under the bright fluorescent lights.

“That road is the only way up the southern ridge,” Trevor said, speaking up without his lawyer’s permission.

“It is a public necessity for development.”

“It is a private gravel road, Mr. Pike,” I said, turning to face him.

“And you have no right to use it for any purpose.”

Judge Whitaker peered over his glasses at the map.

“Let me see the county registry filings, Ms. Lane,” the judge said.

I walked to the clerk’s desk and handed over the documents.

The paper felt thick and dry in my hands.

I could hear the rain hitting the roof of the courthouse.

Kelsey glared at me, her eyes narrow and dark.

“You always wanted everything for yourself, Meredith,” she whispered across the aisle.

“You stole that mountain from us, and you know it.”

My mother looked up then, her mouth a tight, disappointed line.

“Let the lawyers speak, Kelsey,” Denise murmured, though she was looking at me with cold disapproval.

My father remained silent, his shoulders hunched.

Just then, the heavy wooden doors at the back of the courtroom creaked open.

A young man in a wet yellow rain jacket walked down the center aisle.

Water dripped from his hood onto the carpet.

He held a sealed white envelope with a red rush delivery sticker on the front.

The bailiff stepped forward to block him.

“I have an urgent filing for the Lane property dispute,” the courier said, his voice echoing.

“Direct from the Buncombe County Registry of Deeds.”

The bailiff took the envelope and inspected it.

He walked it up to the clerk, who sliced it open with a long metal letter opener.

Judge Whitaker watched the clerk pull out a fresh, certified deed.