I brought this.”
Inside was a photocopy of a document.
AGRICULTURAL RECREATION ACCESS AGREEMENT.
My name appeared at the top.
Cedar Ridge Homeowners Association appeared beneath it.
The agreement supposedly granted the HOA recreational access to thirty-two acres of Mercer Farm each September and October.
There was a signature at the bottom.
Jack Mercer.
It looked enough like mine to fool someone who had never watched me sign my name.
I stared at it for three seconds.
Then four.
Then five.
Trish mistook my silence for fear.
“You signed an agricultural-use agreement with Cedar Ridge’s development company eight years ago.”
“No.”
“It transferred with the association.”
“No.”
“You may not remember every document signed during the original subdivision negotiations.”
“I remember that one.”
She tilted her head.
“You remember not signing it?”
“I remember being in Afghanistan on the date printed at the bottom.”
Silence.
The wind moved through the
