“He died owing six months of unpaid bills at the lumberyard,” Brandon cut in, leaning across the table toward me.

“Your father ran Sterling Construction straight into the ground while you were sitting in an air-conditioned supply depot in Europe.”

I blew across the top of my black coffee and took a slow sip.

The bitter heat cleared the stale air of the transport plane from my throat.

Arthur Vance didn’t close his binder.

He kept his heavy brass pen resting on the bottom edge of the yellow page, waiting for the room to settle.

“I have sixteen certified copies of the recorded land filings in my office in Oakridge,” Vance said quietly to Pembroke.