I slid the signed delivery receipt toward her. "Three days before."
That changed her expression. Not dramatically—just enough. She pulled a yellow legal pad closer and began building a timeline: 6:12 Tuesday morning: first documented delivery.
Certified notice mailed before noon.
Receipt signed by Vanessa three days later.
Continued contractor traffic.
Attempted sixteenth delivery.
Temporary Community Use Notice.
Attorney letter.
New padlock.
Each event received a date. Each date received a document. When she finished, Rachel tapped her pen beside the first photograph.
"Most people walk into my office with anger. You walked in with records."
"My father believed paperwork survives arguments."
"Your father was right."
She asked about the land before Cedar Ridge existed. So, I told her about Walter, the workshop, and the boundary walks we made when I was a kid. Then I remembered something: Dad's steel cabinet held more than the current survey. There were older plats, tax records, and correspondence from when the subdivision developer first purchased the neighboring acreage.
I drove home with Rachel's words stuck in my head: Find everything.
The workshop was warm when I returned. Afternoon sunlight came through the dusty windows in narrow gold stripes. I opened the bottom drawer and started removing folders one at a time: Property Taxes, Utility Easements, Well Permits. Then, behind a stack of faded equipment receipts, I found a thin brown envelope dated 1998.
Inside was a boundary acknowledgement signed by the company that had originally developed Cedar Ridge. The document referenced the same eastern property line shown on Dad's survey. More importantly, it acknowledged that the developer held no access rights across Walter Cole's parcel.