Pine Falls was small—four blocks of main street, a post office, a diner, a hardware store, and Riverstone Bank in an old stone building. The bank manager who came out to meet me looked at me once and said, not asking, “Walter’s granddaughter.”
I nodded.
“He talked about you every time he came in here,” he said.
That shook me more than it should have.
He led me to the vault. The bank key went into one lock, my brass key into the other. Inside the box was a thick folder, a sealed envelope, and a small leather ledger.
I opened the folder first.
Seven deeds.
Seven parcels of land surrounding the lake.
Dates spanning nearly four decades.
It took me a full minute to understand that I was not looking at random purchases. I was looking at a plan. Forty acres north of the lake. Twenty-two east of the road. Thirty-five including the ridge. Marshland. Shoreline access. A wooded parcel near the old bridge.