“Grandpa couldn’t hold a pen for two years, Thomas,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “He drank out of this because his hands shook so bad he’d spill a regular cup.”

“Now, you’re going to tell me that he sat down at your desk and wrote a perfect, elegant signature without a single tremor?”

He stared at the plastic cup. He looked like he wanted to close the door, but my boots were wedged against the frame.

“I have a handwriting expert already looking at the signature,” I lied. “And my lawyer is preparing to file a formal complaint with the Secretary of State to strip your notary license. If you lied on that document, that’s a felony. You’ll go to jail for Gerald’s project.”

The color drained from his face. He looked down at his tea, his hands shaking almost as bad as Grandpa’s used to.

“Gerald said it was what Arthur wanted,” Thomas whispered. “He said the family agreed. He gave me ten thousand dollars to help with my wife’s medical bills. I didn’t think anyone would check.”

Thomas Miller wrote a full confession that night. Sarah, my lawyer, had him sign it in her office the next morning while a court reporter recorded every word.

We learned that my uncle had transferred ten thousand dollars from his corporate account to Thomas Miller’s personal checking account the day after the deed was filed. The paper trail was as clear as glass.

With that confession and the bank records, Sarah filed an emergency injunction. We got a court order halting any development on the farm and freezing my uncle’s corporate bank accounts.

The sheriff, a man named Deputy Vance who had gone to high school with me, personally rode out to the farm to serve the papers.

I drove out there to meet him. I wanted to see Gerald’s face when the hammer came down. Gerald was standing near the yellow earthmovers, talking to a construction foreman, when we arrived.

He looked up, his face smug as he saw my truck pull in. “You’re trespassing, kiddo,” he yelled, walking toward us with his hands in his pockets. “I told you, this land is mine.”

Deputy Vance didn’t say a word. He walked up to Gerald and handed him the court order.

“Gerald Walker,” Vance said, his voice loud and clear in the open pasture air. “You’re being served with a temporary restraining order. All work on this property is to cease immediately. There’s an active investigation into deed fraud.”

Gerald’s smug expression didn’t just fade; it evaporated. He looked at the papers, then looked at me. His face went a strange, dusty gray color.

“This is a misunderstanding,” Gerald stammered, looking at the deputy. “Arthur signed those papers. We have a notary.”

“Thomas Miller confessed, Gerald,” I said. “We have the bank transfers. Every single dime you paid him.”