“He’s in the front lobby.”

At nine thirty, Morales walked me down the quiet carpeted hall into the main conference room, where a thin man in a charcoal suit was unbuckling a leather briefcase.

“Leah, this is Dalton,” Morales said, putting her green file folder down on the mahogany conference table.

“He handles civilian property deeds in Oak Ridge.”

Dalton slid his reading glasses down to look at me over the top of the frames.

“Your grandfather Arthur knew exactly what he was doing,” Dalton said, sliding a thick blue paper file onto the polished wood.