Inside the compartment lay a steel document tube and a leather ledger. My hands shook as I unscrewed the cap and slid out a stack of papers bearing the seal of a Denver law firm. The first page was a trust agreement, dated eight months before Eleanor died, naming me as sole beneficiary of everything that mattered. The ledger beside it was filled with Eleanor’s neat handwriting, page after page of figures.

I sat back on my heels and read the final entry twice. “The Naples house carries a lien Natalie does not know about.” My pulse thudded. Then headlights swept across the cabin windows, and an engine idled outside. Someone knocked, firmly, three times, and a woman’s voice called through the door, “Mr. Walter Hayes? I am Attorney Dana Whitfield. Eleanor asked me to find you tonight.”