Ben pulled a folded paper from his back pocket, his hands shaking worse than mine. “I found this in Uncle Carl’s shop, inside the old toolbox he never let anyone touch,” he said. “Dad doesn’t know I took it. Please, just read it before you plant another acre.” Across the road, the tractor kept making its passes, and Gordon had started walking toward us.

I unfolded the page. It was Carl’s handwriting, pressed hard into the paper, dated six weeks before the heart attack. The first line stopped my breath. “Diane, if my brothers hand you a check, don’t believe a single word of why they need it so fast.” Underneath, a number was circled twice in red ink, followed by a name I had never seen. Gordon’s boots hit the gravel behind me.