I remembered a Sunday that July, a folding table set out on the grass at Blue Harbor, and Gregory pushing a single page across it while the wind lifted the corner.

Sign right here, he’d said.

It’s just a formality for the family.

Wyatt had stood behind him holding a glass of lemonade with his hand resting on my shoulder, and I had signed where the line was.

I flipped to the back of the schedule and hunted for the page that lays out the ownership history.

It wasn’t there.

I opened my yellow notepad and wrote Palmer Crest Holdings across the top of the page.

Then I added a question mark next to it.