“And there's another thing,” he said.
He handed me the document.
At the top were the words ENGEL FARMS.
Below them was Jeff's name.
Then I saw the date.
April 7.
I looked back at Luke.
“Why is this dated April seventh?”
He swallowed.
“That's what I need to tell you.”
I stared at the paper.
On April seventh, Jeff had been unconscious in a hospital bed.
He hadn't been meeting with his brothers.
He hadn't been conducting business.
And he certainly hadn't been signing away anything.
Yet there, beneath the printed date, was a signature that appeared to be his.
I looked across the road again.
Frank hadn't moved.
For the first time since my husband's death, I understood that the check at the funeral might have been only one part of something much larger.
“Your uncle couldn't have signed this,” I said.
Luke looked at the document in my hands.
“I know.”
The words came out so quietly that I nearly missed them.
We stood beside the gate of my newly purchased farm, with the morning wind moving through the dry grass along the fence.
Across the road, Frank watched from beside his pickup.
I looked again at the date.
April seventh.
Jeff had been admitted to the hospital on April sixth after collapsing in the equipment shed. He had remained sedated and critically ill until he died two days later.
I knew every hour of those final days.
I knew which nurse had worked the night shift.
I knew when the doctor had explained that Jeff's condition was deteriorating.
And I knew that no one had asked me to witness a business transaction beside his hospital bed.
Yet the document Luke handed me stated that Jeff had voluntarily authorized the transfer of his ownership interest in Engel Farms to his brothers.
Beneath his supposed signature was another line.
Melissa Engel.
It was labeled as an acknowledgment that I had been informed.
I stared at the handwriting.
“That isn't mine.”
Luke nodded.
“I didn't think so.”
“Where did you find this?”
He glanced toward his father.
“Dad had me print some papers the day before the funeral. He said they were for Mr. Beck.”
“Paul Beck?”
“Yeah. The accountant.”
Luke ran a hand through his hair.
“I wasn't supposed to read them. But the printer jammed, and I had to pull the pages out.”
He swallowed.
“I saw Uncle Jeff's name. Then I saw the date.”
I looked down at the document again.
“Did you ask your father about it?”
“I tried.”
“What did he say?”
Luke's jaw tightened.
“He told me I didn't understand legal paperwork and that I should stop asking questions.”
Frank shut his pickup door across the road.
The sound carried in the quiet morning.
Luke glanced toward him.
“I copied this before I gave the folder back.”
“Why didn't you tell me at the funeral?”
His face changed.
For a moment, he looked much younger than twenty-four.
“I wanted to,” he said. “But everybody was there. Josie was crying. Dad kept saying he was handling everything.”
He looked down at his boots.
“And I wasn't sure what I was looking at.”
I understood his hesitation.
Luke had grown up working under Frank.
He depended on his father for employment.
The farm was his livelihood, and family loyalty had been taught to him almost as firmly as the difference between corn and soybeans.
Questioning Frank meant challenging the structure of Luke's entire adult life.
Still, he had crossed the road.
That mattered.
“Tell me about the check,” I said.
Luke took a breath.
“Dad told people he and Uncle Dale were giving you money to help you start over.”
“Yes.”
“But I heard him talking to Mr. Beck after the funeral. The payment came from the company. They used the operating credit line.”
I felt my mouth go dry.
“Jeff's company?”
“All three brothers' company.”
“Why would they borrow money to give me a check?”
Luke shook his head.
“I think they were trying to buy Uncle Jeff's part of the business.”
“Then why didn't they tell me that?”
He looked toward his father again.
“I don't know everything, Aunt Melissa.”
That answer frightened me more than a confident accusation would have.
He wasn't telling me a dramatic story because he disliked his father.
He was trying to explain what he'd actually seen.
“What else did you hear?” I asked.
“Dad said the payment should be recorded as an advance against Uncle Jeff's interest. He told Mr. Beck they needed the paperwork completed before anybody started asking questions.”
I examined the check copy in my folder, which I'd brought outside when Luke arrived.
Frank's signature was clear.
The company name matched.
There was no indication that the money was a personal gift.
I thought about the funeral luncheon.
Frank standing before relatives.
Dale watching silently.
The check placed between the flowers and the coffee cups.
Frank had called it a family settlement.
But he'd never explained what was being settled.
I felt anger rising.
“Why would he do this?”
Luke shook his head.
“I don't know. But I don't think Uncle Jeff would have agreed to it.”
I looked at him.
“What makes you say that?”
“Because they were arguing about borrowing before he got sick.”
I remembered Jeff's notebook.
The underlined reminder to ask Frank about the loan balance.
Luke continued.
“Uncle Jeff wanted to slow things down. Dad wanted to expand. They'd been fighting about it for weeks.”
“Did Dale know?”
“Uncle Dale was there for some of it.”
Luke hesitated.
“He didn't say much.”
That sounded familiar.
Dale had spent years standing beside Frank while avoiding difficult decisions.
But avoiding a decision was still a decision.
Across the road, Frank started toward us.
He stopped at the edge of the pavement and looked directly at Luke.
Luke folded his arms.
“I need to go.”
“Luke, wait.”
He turned back.
“Why are you telling me this now?”
He looked toward the house.
Through the kitchen window, Josie was watching us while holding a mug of cocoa.
“Because Uncle Jeff was good to me,” Luke said.
His voice was uneven.
“He taught me things Dad never had the patience to explain. When I broke equipment, he showed me how to fix it instead of calling me stupid.”
I remembered Jeff coming home one summer evening after Luke had accidentally damaged a planter.
Frank had shouted at the young man for almost an hour.
Jeff found Luke sitting alone in the shed afterward.
He helped him identify the damaged parts, then stayed until the repairs were complete.
When I asked Jeff why he had spent so much time on a mistake that wasn't his, he shrugged.
“Luke will remember how to fix it next time.”
Now Luke stood in front of me, struggling against tears.
“I owe him more than standing there while Dad treats you like this.”
I reached out and touched his arm.
“You don't owe your uncle a debt.”
Luke shook his head.
“Maybe not. But I owe you the truth.”
He stepped backward.
“Please don't tell Dad I gave you that copy.”
“I won't volunteer your name. But if this becomes a legal matter, I can't promise it will stay hidden.”
He nodded.
“I figured.”
Then he crossed the road.
Frank waited until Luke reached him.
I couldn't hear their conversation.
But I saw Frank point toward my house.
Luke turned away.
The two men stood facing each other for several seconds before Frank climbed into his truck.
Luke remained beside the grain bins.
I watched until Frank drove away.
Then I went inside.
Josie was standing by the kitchen table.
“Is Luke in trouble?”
“I hope not.”
“What did he want?”
I looked at the document.
“There's something about your dad's business that I need to understand.”
“Did Uncle Frank do something?”
“I don't know everything yet.”
Josie studied my face.
“You look angry.”
“I am.”
She stepped closer.
“Are we going to lose this house, too?”
The question caught me off guard.
I put the paper facedown on the table.
“No one has told us that.”
“But what if the money was wrong?”
I realized she had heard more than I intended.
I pulled out a chair.
“Sit with me for a minute.”
She sat.
I told her that her father had been part owner of Engel Farms and that I needed an attorney to review some documents.
I didn't accuse her uncles of crimes.
I didn't describe the disputed signatures.
She was twelve.
She deserved honesty without being made responsible for adult problems.
“Your dad worked very hard,” I said. “I'm going to make sure his work is accounted for fairly.”
Josie nodded.
“Would Daddy be upset?”
“I think he'd want us to ask questions.”
She looked toward the window.
“I wish he was here to answer them.”
“So do I.”
After she left for school, I called Elena Ward.
Elena had helped Jeff and me prepare our wills several years earlier.
She was a careful woman in her early fifties who spoke plainly and disliked unnecessary drama.
Her office was in a small brick building near the courthouse.
When I called, her assistant offered an appointment the following week.
I explained that I had received a document supposedly signed by my husband while he was unconscious in the hospital.
The assistant asked me to hold.
A minute later, Elena came on the line.
“Melissa?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me exactly what you have.”
I described the funeral payment, the transfer authorization, the date, and Luke's account.
She let me finish.
Then she asked, “Have you signed any settlement agreement?”
“No.”
“Any release?”
“No.”
“Any assignment of Jeff's ownership?”
“No.”
“Did you sign anything when you received the check?”
“I accepted the check. That's all.”
There was a pause.
“Good. Don't sign anything else concerning the farm until we review the records.”
I looked at the document.
“Have I already made a terrible mistake?”
“Not necessarily. Accepting a payment isn't automatically the same as agreeing to every condition somebody later claims it carried.”
I sat down.
“What do I need to do?”
“Bring me everything you've got.”
“When?”
“Today.”
I gathered the papers.
The check copy.
Jeff's ownership statement.
His notebook.
Our wills.
The document Luke had given me.
And the notes I'd written after speaking with Paul Beck.
Before leaving, I called Harold to explain that I needed to postpone repairs on the tractor.
“Family business?” he asked.
“Something like that.”
He was quiet.
“Anything I can do?”
“Keep an eye on the place while I'm gone?”
“Sure.”
Then he added, “Melissa, don't let anybody rush you into decisions you don't understand.”
I thanked him.
I was beginning to hear that advice from enough people to understand that Frank's insistence on speed had been important.
At Elena's office, I placed the documents on her desk.
She began with the check.
She examined the company name and the absence of any settlement language.
Then she turned to the supposed transfer authorization.
Her expression grew serious.
“Tell me again when Jeff entered the hospital.”
“April sixth.”
“And this document is dated April seventh.”
“Yes.”
“Was he capable of understanding and signing business papers?”
“No. He was sedated and critically ill.”
“Do you have medical records showing that?”
“I can obtain them.”
She nodded.
“We'll do that through the appropriate process.”
She studied the two signatures.
“Did you sign this acknowledgment?”
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“Elena, I've written my name every day for decades. That's not my handwriting.”
“I believe you.”
She took notes.
“I'm asking because we need to document every factual point carefully.”
She explained that the company documents would determine how Jeff's ownership interest passed after his death and whether his brothers had any contractual right to purchase that interest.
Even if the company had a buyout arrangement, she said, there should be clear procedures governing valuation, authorization, and payment.
“Frank told me the money was a family settlement,” I said.
“Did he provide an appraisal?”
“No.”
“A calculation?”
“No.”
“A written agreement?”
“No.”
“Then we don't know how he arrived at five hundred thousand dollars.”
I felt foolish.
For days, I had treated the amount as though its size made it self-explanatory.
Elena noticed my expression.
“Melissa, you were at your husband's funeral. Nobody should expect you to conduct a legal review over lunch.”
I looked down.
“I keep thinking I should have asked more questions.”
“You're asking them now.”
She returned to the transfer authorization.
“This is particularly concerning.”
“Because Jeff couldn't have signed it?”
“Yes. But we also need to know who prepared it, whether anyone relied on it, and whether it was ever treated as effective.”
She explained that a questionable document could be evidence of attempted deception without necessarily having changed ownership legally.
The difference mattered.
We needed to find out whether Frank had merely prepared an improper paper or had used it to make an unauthorized transfer.
I asked whether accepting the money meant I had surrendered Jeff's share.
“Not on the information you've shown me,” she said. “But we need to establish the nature of the payment and examine the actual governing agreements.”
I felt some of the pressure lift from my chest.
Then I remembered the farmhouse.
“Frank said the company owned our home.”
Elena nodded.
“That may be correct.”
“He said that meant I had to leave.”
“Those are two different statements.”
I looked at her.
“What do you mean?”
“Ownership of the land doesn't tell us everything about your right to occupy the house.”
I sat forward.
“Jeff always told me we'd be protected.”
“Did he ever mention a residence agreement?”
I searched my memory.
“There was something when the brothers reorganized the company. Around 2016, I think.”
“What something?”
“I remember Jeff saying he wouldn't sign the new arrangements until our home was protected.”
Elena leaned back.
“That's useful.”
I tried to remember the conversation.
Jeff had come home one evening carrying a folder.
He was annoyed with Frank.
He said the business reorganization was finally complete, but he wanted to make sure nobody could force us out of the farmhouse if something happened to him.
I remembered asking whether he was worried about dying.
He had laughed.
“No. I'm worried about Frank getting ideas.”
At the time, it seemed like an ordinary complaint.
Now it sounded different.
I told Elena.
She wrote it down.
“Do you remember signing anything?”
“No.”
“That doesn't mean there wasn't an agreement among the company members.”
She looked at the old ownership statement.
“We'll request the operating agreement and amendments. We'll also check the county property records for any recorded rights affecting the farmhouse.”
I asked whether Frank could refuse.
“He can make the process difficult,” she said. “But there are formal ways to obtain records, and some property documents are public.”
She gave me a list of items to gather.
Hospital records.
Bank documentation.
Any communications from Frank.
Copies of relevant property documents.
She also asked me to write down everything I remembered about the funeral conversation while it was still fresh.
“Use your own words,” she said. “Don't make the account more dramatic than it was.”
I almost smiled.
“I don't think it needs help.”
“No,” she agreed. “It doesn't.”
Before I left, Elena asked another question.
“Why did you buy the farm across the road?”
I told her about Alma.
About Josie.
About the need to live somewhere that belonged to us.
Elena listened.
“Was the purchase completed before you saw this disputed document?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still have the closing records?”
“Every page.”
“Good.”
She folded her hands.
“We may have complicated financial issues to untangle, but you shouldn't assume the money has to be returned simply because it came from company borrowing. The source of the funds and the legal basis for the payment are separate questions.”
I nodded.
“We'll establish what the company owed Jeff's estate, what it actually paid, and who authorized the transaction.”
When I stood to leave, she added, “And Melissa?”
I turned.
“Don't confront Frank with this until we know what we're looking at.”
That advice was harder to follow than anything else she had said.
I wanted to drive straight to the farmhouse.
I wanted to stand in front of Frank and ask why he had put Jeff's name on a document dated while Jeff lay unconscious.
I wanted Dale to look me in the eye and explain what he'd known.
Instead, I went home.
I stopped at the grocery store on the way and bought milk, bread, and a package of chicken.
The ordinary purchases felt strange after the conversation I'd just had.
I stood in the checkout line behind a woman discussing the weather with the cashier.
Nobody around me knew that a document dated during my husband's final hours was sitting in the folder beneath my arm.
The world continued as though nothing unusual had happened.
When I returned to the farm, Harold was checking the tractor.
He had found the replacement hydraulic fitting we needed.
“Thought I'd save you a trip,” he said.
I thanked him.
He noticed my expression.
“Bad news?”
“Complicated news.”
He tightened a connection.
“Most important news is.”
We worked on the tractor for an hour.
He explained what he was doing, then made me repeat the procedure.
I appreciated the distraction.
Before leaving, he pointed toward the opposite field.
“Frank stopped by.”
I looked up.
“What did he want?”
“Asked whether I'd been helping you.”
“What did you say?”
“Told him I had.”
“And?”
“Then he asked how much you were paying me.”
I felt heat rise in my face.
“What did you tell him?”
Harold smiled without humor.
“That it's none of his business.”
I laughed despite myself.
He wiped his hands.
“He didn't appreciate that.”
“No. I imagine he didn't.”
Harold watched me for a moment.
“Whatever you've got going on with those brothers, don't let it interfere with checking your equipment. Steel doesn't care about family disagreements.”
It was exactly the sort of thing Jeff would have said.
I thanked him again.
That evening, I sat with Josie while she worked on a science assignment.
She was learning about plant growth.
She had drawn a diagram showing roots extending into soil.
I looked at the picture.
“What happens if the roots don't get enough water?”
“They struggle,” she answered.
“And if they do?”
“They grow.”
She looked at me suspiciously.
“Are you trying to teach me a life lesson?”
I laughed.
“Not intentionally.”
“Good. Because I've had enough of those.”
She returned to her drawing.
I watched her work.
Her pencil moved carefully.
She had Jeff's concentration.
When something mattered to her, she became completely absorbed in it.
I wondered what he would say if he could see us sitting at this unfamiliar table.
I hoped he would be pleased that we were trying.
After Josie went to bed, I wrote my account of the funeral conversation.
I included the date, the people nearby, the check, and Frank's exact words as best I remembered them.
I noted Dale's statement about making a clean break.
I wrote down Josie's questions.
Then I saved the document and emailed it to Elena.
The next morning, Elena called.
She had begun examining the publicly available land records.
“Melissa, I found something you should know about.”
I set down my coffee.
“What?”
“There's a recorded agreement involving the farmhouse.”
I held my breath.
“An ownership document?”
“Not exactly. It's an occupancy agreement.”
I sat down slowly.
She explained that in 2016, when Engel Farms updated its ownership and property arrangements, the company had executed a separate agreement concerning the family residence.
The document had been recorded with the county.
It contained signatures from all three brothers acting for the company.
“And Jeff?” I asked.
“He signed it, too.”
“What does it say?”
Elena was careful.
“I want to review the complete recorded document and the company's governing agreements before giving you a final opinion. But the language appears to grant Jeff and his spouse a continuing right to occupy the farmhouse, including a surviving spouse's right after his death.”
I couldn't speak.
For days, I had believed that living in the house depended on Frank's permission.
He had looked me in the eye at Jeff's funeral and told me I had to leave.
I had packed our belongings.
I'd stood helplessly while Josie touched the marks on the kitchen doorway.
And now there was a document suggesting I had never been required to go.
“Elena,” I whispered, “did Frank sign it?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“His name and notarized signature appear on the recorded copy.”
I looked through the window.
Across the road, Frank's tractor was moving along the field.
He had signed an agreement protecting our home.
Then he had handed me a check at his brother's funeral and told me to get out.
I pressed my hand against my forehead.
“Why would he do that?”
“I can't tell you what he was thinking,” Elena said. “But I can tell you we need to examine the records very closely.”
She arranged for certified copies of the recorded agreement and requested the company's operating documents through formal channels.
I spent the rest of the morning moving between hope and anger.
If the agreement meant what it appeared to mean, Jeff had protected us exactly as he'd promised.
The protection hadn't disappeared when he died.
Someone had simply neglected to tell me it existed.
Or perhaps somebody had counted on me never finding it.
That afternoon, Dale drove into my driveway.
I was repairing a loose hinge on the barn door when he arrived.
He climbed out slowly.
“Melissa.”
“Dale.”
He glanced toward the tractor.
“Looks like you've got yourself some work.”
“I have.”
He studied the barn.
“I remember when Alma's husband built this.”
I waited.
He was making conversation, but I could see he hadn't come to talk about the barn.
Finally, he said, “Frank tells me you've been asking Paul for records.”
“Yes.”
“He says you've hired a lawyer.”
“Yes.”
Dale rubbed his hands together.
“Is that necessary?”
I put down the screwdriver.
“Do you remember the agreement you signed in 2016?”
He went still.
“What agreement?”
“The one protecting Jeff's right to live in the farmhouse with his wife.”
Dale looked toward the road.
“Melissa, there were a lot of documents.”
“This one was recorded.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, his expression had changed.
“I remember the discussion.”
“Then you know Frank told me to leave.”
Dale looked ashamed.
“I know.”
“You stood beside him.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He opened his mouth, then stopped.
I waited.
Eventually, he said, “Frank said the agreement wouldn't matter after the company settled Jeff's interest.”
“Was that your understanding when you signed it?”
Dale didn't answer.
I stepped closer.
“Did Jeff agree that I should leave?”
“No.”
The word came out immediately.
I felt something inside me shift.
“Then why did Frank say he would have wanted it?”
Dale looked down.
“He shouldn't have said that.”
I was suddenly tired.
“Dale, you could have told me this at the funeral.”
“I know.”
“You could have said something while we were packing.”
“I know.”
“You watched Josie carry her father's things out of that house.”
His face tightened.
“Melissa, I'm sorry.”
I studied him.
An apology couldn't undo what had happened.
But it was the first time one of the brothers had admitted that the situation was wrong.
I asked whether he had signed the transfer authorization dated April seventh.
He looked confused.
“What transfer authorization?”
I described it.
His expression changed from confusion to alarm.
“Where did you get that?”
“I'm asking whether you signed it.”
“No.”
“Did you know it existed?”
He hesitated.
“Frank told me the estate paperwork was being handled.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
He looked toward the road again.
Then he said, “You need to talk to your lawyer.”
I almost laughed.
Everybody was telling me that.
At least this time I knew why.
Dale moved toward his truck.
Before opening the door, he turned.
“Jeff wasn't trying to leave you without anything.”
I stared at him.
“I never thought he was.”
Dale nodded slowly.
“Then don't let anybody tell you otherwise.”
He drove away.
I stood beside the barn until the dust settled.
That evening, I called Elena and told her everything Dale had said.
She listened carefully.
His acknowledgment of the 2016 agreement mattered.
So did his reaction to the transfer authorization.
She advised me to preserve my notes and avoid discussing the disputed papers with other family members unnecessarily.
Two days later, Elena received another set of records.
This time the information concerned the company's finances.
The five-hundred-thousand-dollar payment had been processed using money available through the farm's operating credit arrangement.
It was recorded as an advance against the amount purportedly owed for Jeff's ownership interest.
Not a gift.
Not a personal contribution from Frank and Dale.
A company payment.
Elena also found indications that Frank had treated the disputed transfer authorization as support for closing out Jeff's ownership account.
She explained that the records were incomplete and that we needed the underlying agreements and bank documentation before reaching a final conclusion.
But the pattern was becoming difficult to ignore.
Frank had presented company money as personal generosity.
He had told me to leave despite a recorded occupancy agreement.
And the paperwork used to support the supposed transfer carried a signature dated while Jeff was incapacitated.
I asked Elena what would happen next.
“We're going to request an independent accounting,” she said.
“Will Frank agree?”
“I don't know.”
“And if he refuses?”
“Then we'll use the available legal process.”
I looked out at the fields.
“I don't want to destroy the farm.”
“Requesting accurate records doesn't destroy a business, Melissa.”
“Frank will say I'm attacking the family.”
“He may.”
I took a breath.
“Then I need to be prepared.”
Elena was quiet for a moment.
“Tell me something. If the residence agreement is enforceable, do you want to move back into the farmhouse?”
I looked around our small kitchen.
The table Alma had left us was scratched.
The cabinets needed paint.
A folded towel sat beneath the leaking faucet until I could replace the washer.
Through the doorway, I could see Josie's schoolbooks stacked beside her father's photograph.
“I don't know,” I admitted.
“You don't have to decide now.”
That evening, Luke called.
His voice was strained.
“Dad knows somebody gave you papers.”
I stood beside the kitchen window.
“Did he say that?”
“He asked if I'd been talking to you.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That you were my aunt and I could talk to you whenever I wanted.”
I almost smiled.
“How did he take that?”
“Not well.”
Luke hesitated.
“He told me I wasn't welcome in the equipment office anymore.”
“Luke, I'm sorry.”
“Don't be.”
He paused.
“There's another thing I remembered.”
I leaned against the counter.
“What?”
“When Dad had me print those documents, there was a second page in the packet.”
I waited.
“It listed the amount they were paying for Uncle Jeff's interest. But it wasn't the five hundred thousand they gave you.”
I felt my pulse quicken.
“What amount was it?”
Luke took a breath.
“It was more. A lot more.”
“Do you have that page?”
“No. Dad took the folder.”
“Are you certain you saw it?”
“Yes.”
He sounded miserable.
“I should have copied the whole thing.”
“You didn't know what was happening.”
“I knew something was wrong.”
I looked at my husband's photograph on the shelf.
“Luke, you've already helped more than you realize.”
There was silence on the line.
Then Luke said, “Aunt Melissa, if Dad says Uncle Jeff agreed to everything, don't believe it without seeing the original papers.”
“I won't.”
He hung up.
I sat at the table and opened Jeff's old notebook.
The page with his debt calculations was still there.
I turned it over and examined the faint pencil marks on the back.
Jeff had been tracking more than operating expenses.
He had written down equipment values, land estimates, and figures that appeared to concern each brother's ownership.
One column ended with a question mark.
Beside it, he had written three words.
“Independent valuation needed.”
I stared at the note.
My husband had been asking questions about the value of his share before he died.
And somewhere in Frank's office, according to Luke, there was a document showing a figure much larger than the check presented at the funeral.
I closed the notebook.
For the first time, I wasn't wondering whether Frank had simply been unkind.
I was wondering how much he had tried to take.
The first letter from my attorney went to Engel Farms on a Monday morning.
By lunchtime, Frank was standing in my driveway.
He didn't knock.
He climbed out of his pickup, walked toward the barn, and called my name while I was checking the planter.
“Melissa! We need to talk.”
I put down the wrench.
He was carrying a large envelope.
His face was red.
“What is this supposed to accomplish?” he demanded.
I knew immediately what he meant.
“Elena sent you a letter?”
“You've hired somebody to threaten your own family.”
“I hired somebody to review the records.”
He waved the envelope.
“An independent accounting? Copies of ownership agreements? Financial statements? What kind of game are you playing?”
I took off my gloves.
“It's not a game.”
“Then why are you treating us like criminals?”
“I haven't called you a criminal.”
“You're acting like one of those people who thinks a farm is just money on a piece of paper.”
I stared at him.
“Jeff spent his entire life working that farm.”
“I know what Jeff did.”
“Then you should understand why his share matters.”
Frank stepped closer.
“We gave you five hundred thousand dollars.”
“No,” I said. “Engel Farms paid me five hundred thousand dollars.”
He stopped.
I continued.
“It came from the company's credit arrangement. It was recorded as an advance against Jeff's ownership.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Where did you hear that?”
“From the records.”
“Who's been talking to you?”
I didn't answer.
He looked toward the machinery sheds across the road.
“Luke.”
I remained silent.
Frank laughed without humor.
“That boy has no idea how this business works.”
“He knows what date Jeff was in the hospital.”
Frank's expression changed.
For a moment, he looked uncertain.
Then he recovered.
“Legal documents can be prepared in advance.”
“Was Jeff capable of signing on April seventh?”
He looked away.
“I'm not standing here discussing medical details.”
“Then discuss the ownership agreement.”
“Your lawyer can talk to ours.”
“That's exactly what she's doing.”
He shoved the envelope beneath his arm.
“You're making a mistake, Melissa.”
I looked toward the old tractor.
“No. I made a mistake when I believed you were being honest at the funeral.”
His jaw tightened.
