Gordon Pruitt led me into his office and locked the door again, as if the walls might be listening. “Ms. Harlow, your grandmother sat in that same chair eleven years ago,” he said. “She made me promise to wait until your mother tried to sell.” He slid a thick folder across the desk, and my hands trembled as I read the first page. The title read “The Margaret Hale Family Trust,” and my name appeared on it more than once.

“Your mother does not own the farmhouse,” he said. “She never has.” I handed him the brass key, and he opened a wall safe behind his desk. Inside sat two sealed black envelopes, one marked with my mother’s name and the other with Delaney’s. Gordon looked at me gravely. “Before you open either one, you need to know what your grandmother discovered, and why she hid it.”