corn.
Dry leaves rattled against one another.
Trish’s expression changed.
Barely.
But I caught it.
The agreement was dated October 14, eight years earlier.
I had been serving with an Army engineering unit attached to a logistics brigade at Bagram during that entire month.
There were military travel records.
Payroll records.
Passport records.
Photographs.
Emails.
Hundreds of people who could prove I was six thousand miles from Missouri.
Trish removed her sunglasses.
“Then perhaps your representative signed.”
“My representative’s name would be on the document.”
She looked down at the signature.
“So you’re accusing the HOA of forgery?”
“I haven’t accused anyone of anything.”
I took a picture of each page with my phone.
“I’m documenting what you handed me.”
She immediately pulled the folder toward herself.
Too late.
“Jack, there’s no reason to make this hostile.”
“You came onto my farm.”
“We believed we had legal access.”
“You cut
