Miller threw the cruiser into reverse, spitting wet gravel against the undercarriage as we backed out of the turnout.

The headlights cut a clean, bright path through the mountain fog.

The road was narrow, flanked on both sides by massive black pines that seemed to crowd the pavement.

The smell of damp earth and pine needles seeped through the vents of the dashboard.

“Vance has been handling the listings for the mountain parcels,” I said, staring out at the dark trees. “Dorian must have realized the title search was going to flag the trust.”

“Arson is a heavy card to play just to clear a title,” Miller said.

“It’s not just a title,” I said, thinking of my father’s faded note. “The real inheritance isn’t the dirt.”

Miller didn’t ask what that meant.

He kept his eyes on the road, taking the sharp curves with the practiced ease of a local deputy.

The drive to the county substation took less than fifteen minutes, but every mile felt like an hour.

The radio crackled with occasional static, the dispatcher’s voice cold and distant as she monitored the fire crew’s progress on the south ridge.