CHAPTER 4
CLAIRE
The house felt bigger in daylight. Last night, exhausted and half-limping from my window mishap, I'd only seen the dim hallway and the kitchen. Now, standing in the middle of Aunt Lois's front room with morning sun cutting through the dusty, cut-glass windows, I could see just how much she'd left behind.
Banker's boxes covered the kitchen table. Each one was labeled in her precise, slanted handwriting. Estate Papers. Tax Records 1995-2010. West Parcel – Notes.
Being executor had sounded straightforward when the lawyer called. I figured I’d need to sign some papers, close some accounts, donate what needed donating and sell what didn't. But standing here, surrounded by decades of carefully preserved records, it didn't feel straightforward at all. It felt personal.
I pulled the nearest box toward me—West Parcel – Notes—and lifted the lid.
Inside, everything was organized with the same care Aunt Lois had brought to every part of her life. Survey maps were folded into protective sleeves. Photocopies of deeds stacked by date. Handwritten cross-references on index cards clipped to the corresponding files.
She hadn't ignored this land the way everyone in town assumed. She'd studied it.
I flipped through the dividers slowly, scanning dates and property markers I only half-recognized. The files went back further than I expected. Some of the older documents were copies of copies, faded and hard to read, but Aunt Lois had annotated them in pencil with notes like Check against county records and Compare to Kincaid boundary claim 1923.
My chest tightened. This wasn't just estate planning. This was research.
I reached a tab near the back labeled Cross-reference – 1912 transfer and pulled it open. The envelope behind it was missing. It wasn't ripped out or stuffed into the bottom of the box in a mess of loose papers. It was just gone.
I checked the surrounding files. Flipped through the dividers again. Even opened the next box to make sure it hadn't been misfiled.
Nothing.
Aunt Lois had never been careless with her records. Every other document in this box was perfectly placed, cross-referenced, and preserved. She wouldn't have left a gap like this unless… unless what? Unless she'd moved it somewhere else. Or given it to someone. Or?—
I stopped myself before finishing the thought.
The absence felt deliberate. And for the first time since I'd arrived, the weight in my chest shifted from grief to something else. Something that made me uneasy.
The sound of a truck in the drive pulled my attention away from the files.
My pulse jumped before I could stop it, and I was annoyed at myself for recognizing the engine. I wiped my hands on my jeans and moved to the window just as Torin's truck rolled to a stop next to my car.
He climbed out carrying a toolkit, his movements calm and steady.
I opened the door before he could knock. "Thanks for coming all the way back out here."
"I said I would." He stepped inside and set the toolkit at his feet, then nodded toward the boxes on the table. "Looks like you've been busy."
I followed his gaze to the piles of paperwork. "Turns out my aunt kept better records than the county clerk."
His mouth twitched. "That doesn't surprise me."
I almost smiled.
"Is your car unlocked? I'll go grab that pane."
"Yeah. No reason to lock up way out here."
"You should keep your car locked, the doors too. Never know who might be wandering around, and with you out here all alone…" His voice trailed off, but the look in his eyes told me he wasn't joking.
"Okay, deputy." I couldn't remember ever locking a door during the time I lived in Mustang Mountain. Not unless we were leaving town.
"I'm serious, Claire." His jaw tensed.
"Okay. I'll lock all the doors from now on."
