“I’m here,” I said, keeping my voice low so my mother wouldn’t hear me from the kitchen. “Dorian is already here with a surveyor.”

“They’re moving fast,” Mr. Voss said. “The county registrar closes at five o’clock tomorrow.”

“They’re trying to physically alter the markers, aren’t they?” I asked.

“If they can prove the original survey was flawed, they can file an emergency correction,” Mr. Voss said. “That would nullify the trust’s specific boundary protections.”

“How do I stop them?” I asked.

“You need the original physical deed from your father’s safe box,” Mr. Voss said. “The one with the handwritten survey notes from 1974.”

“Where is the safe box?” I asked, looking around the cluttered living room.

“Your father kept it hidden beneath the floorboards in the tool shed,” Mr. Voss said. “But you’ll need the key.”

I looked toward the kitchen, where my mother was now washing dishes, her back still turned.

“Where is the key, Mr. Voss?” I whispered.

“Your mother has it,” Mr. Voss said. “She always kept it in her jewelry box.”

I hung up the phone and slipped it back into my pocket.