I picked up the middle tax receipt and ran my index finger across the faint blue ink stamp along its top edge.

“I’m going to the records vault at the courthouse downtown,” I said.

“Take my truck if your car’s low on gas,” David said.

“Bennett and I will be right here on the porch.”

I drove down to Main Street and parked in the public lot behind the county courthouse.

The vault clerk unlocked the heavy iron security gate in the basement and walked me to the back aisle of the land records room.

Tall steel shelves held huge leather volumes under dim, yellowed light bulbs.