“The county recorder just called me,” my attorney, Ms. Whitaker, said. “That deed was recorded last Friday, and someone has already borrowed money against the cabin.” My knees nearly gave out. The deputy slid the document into an evidence bag. Dennis’s face went gray, and the beer slipped from his hand into the gravel, foaming around his boots.

Then tires crunched on the driveway. Kyle’s silver truck rolled in, and Megan sat in the passenger seat. Kyle climbed out smiling until he saw the deputy, and the smile vanished. Megan stepped down slowly, clutching a thick envelope to her chest. She looked at me, then at Kyle, and said in a trembling voice, “Dad, before he says one word, you need to see what’s inside this.”