I let the locksmith crouch at my gate lock for exactly thirty seconds before I pressed the button on the intercom panel by my door. My voice came out of the speaker mounted on the post, and all five of them jumped. “You’re on private property,” I said, calm and clear. “Every camera you’re standing in front of is recording. I’d advise the locksmith to put his tools away before he becomes part of a criminal complaint.” The realtor took a step back immediately, the way people do when they realize they’ve been brought somewhere under false pretenses. My father recovered fast, the way he always did. “Son, open the gate. We need to talk about this land. It makes more sense for your brother to have it.”

“It makes more sense,” I repeated into the intercom. “Interesting. Whose name is on the deed, Dad?” He waved a hand at the realtor like the answer was a formality. “We’ll sort the paperwork. Family handles these things together.” “We do,” I said. “So let me handle my part.” I had already dialed before they arrived. A second set of headlights turned onto the road, slower, deliberate, and my father turned to see a county sheriff’s SUV rolling to a stop behind their vehicles. The same sheriff who had shaken my hand a week earlier and told me land has a way of bringing people back. He’d had no idea how right he was.