Chương 13
Bell had prepared a boundary affidavit and release agreement for the Morrison family to sign.
According to the letter, Mr. Morrison had agreed in principle.
The next page was a copy of that release.
Unsigned.
Grant’s optimism disappeared.
“So Dad never finished this either.”
“Maybe.”
I checked the remaining papers.
There were letters between Dad and someone named Charles Morrison.
Most were short.
Friendly, even.
One discussed fishing access.
Another complained about a tree that had fallen across the western trail.
Then I found a letter from 2004.
David, after what happened last summer, I am not signing anything that changes our recorded rights until we settle the boat access issue.
“What happened last summer?” Grant asked.
“No idea.”
We searched the rest of the bundle.
Nothing explained it.
The three Polaroids showed the western edge of the property.
One included Dad standing beside a wooden survey stake.
Another showed an older man I assumed was Charles Morrison pointing toward the shoreline.
The third showed the detached garage under construction.
On the back Dad had written:
ACTUAL LINE IS WEST OF GARAGE.
C.M. AGREES UNTIL HE DOESN’T.
Grant read it.
“Dad had a gift for optimism.”
I set the photograph down.
The final document was newer.
2018.
A letter from Bell to Dad.
This one mentioned Charles Morrison’s death and said the neighboring parcel had passed into a family trust.
Bell recommended resolving the old discrepancy while the trustees were reorganizing their records.
Dad had handwritten one sentence at the bottom.
After treatment.
I stared at the words.
Grant stopped making jokes.
“He never got to it.”
“No.”
I looked at the brass key inside the box.
It was small, the kind used for a cabinet or safe-deposit box.
A paper tag was tied around it.
Morrison file.
Grant picked it up.
“This is getting ridiculous.”
“There’s another file somewhere.”
“Where?”
I turned the tag over.
On the back was a number.
B-17.
Grant frowned.
“Storage unit?”
“Bank box?”
“Cabinet?”
I looked around the cabin.
Dad had labeled everything.
He had also hidden everything in ways that made perfect sense only to himself.
I stood.
“There’s a filing cabinet in the garage.”
Grant looked toward the dark windows.
“It’s midnight.”
“You drove here with a lockbox.”
“That was emotionally impulsive.”
“So is this.”
He sighed and put his coat back on.
“Fine.”
We crossed the yard with flashlights.
The temperature had dropped below freezing.
Leaves cracked under our shoes.
Grant pulled his collar up around his neck.
“I hate this place.”
“You said sentimental dump.”
“I’m revising downward.”
The garage lock stuck before giving way.
Inside smelled of gasoline, old wood, and cold metal.
My flashlight swept over the workbench.
Dad’s tools still hung from pegboard outlines he had drawn in black marker.
Grant stopped beside a socket set.
“Owen.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m just saying.”
“You withdrew the claim.”
“I regret negotiating so quickly.”
The filing cabinet stood in the back corner beneath shelves of paint cans.
Four drawers.
Each had faded masking-tape labels.
TAX.
BOAT.
PERMITS.
MISC.
No B-17.
Grant opened the miscellaneous drawer.
It contained warranty manuals, fishing licenses, a dead mouse trap, and a bag of zip ties.
“Excellent archive.”
I checked the permit drawer.
Building permit.
Electrical inspection.
Septic approval.
Garage plans.
Then, near the back, a blue folder marked B-17.
Grant looked over my shoulder.
“That feels too easy.”
I pulled it out.
Inside was a newer survey, dated 2018, commissioned by Dad.
The corrected line again placed the easement west of the garage.
Behind it was an email printout from Bell.
David, I spoke with Rebecca Morrison.
She may be willing to sign a formal release if you agree to preserve foot access to the old north landing.
Grant leaned closer.
“Who’s Rebecca?”
“Probably Charles’s daughter.”
There was a phone number handwritten beneath the email.
I turned the page.
The next item was a draft agreement granting the Morrison trust a narrow walking path to the lake in exchange for releasing the old recorded easement.
It looked reasonable.
It was also unsigned.
“Dad almost solved it,” Grant said.
“Looks like it.”
“Then treatment happened.”
“Yes.”
I kept searching.
At the bottom of the folder was one final note in Dad’s handwriting.
Rebecca is fair.
Call her before Bell turns this into twelve pages.
I laughed softly.
Grant did too.
The laughter disappeared when I noticed another line beneath it.
Owen should handle this someday.
I stared at the sentence.
Grant saw it.
Neither of us spoke for a while.
Then he said, “Well.”
“Yeah.”
“Apparently someday is tonight.”
“No.”
I closed the folder.
“Someday is tomorrow.”
Grant nodded.
“Good.”
He rubbed his hands together.
“I can’t feel my fingers.”
We went back inside.
I set the Morrison folder beside the other documents.
The table was filling with Dad’s unfinished business.
Grant looked at everything spread across it.
“This is weird.”
“What?”
“I spent years thinking he had everything figured out.”
I poured water into the kettle.
“He couldn’t program the DVR.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
Grant sat.
“He left all these half-finished things.”
“Most people do.”
“That’s depressing.”
“It’s also why lawyers exist.”
“Also depressing.”
The kettle began to hiss.
I made two mugs of instant coffee.
Grant accepted his without complaint, which told me how tired he was.
He stared into the mug.
“Are you going to call Rebecca Morrison?”
“If the number still works.”
“And Bell.”
“Yes.”
“What if the trust refuses?”
“Then I deal with it.”
“You?”
I looked at him.
Grant nodded toward the papers.
“I mean, do you want help?”
The question was careful.
So careful it made me suspicious.
“What kind of help?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly.”
“I can make phone calls.”
“You hate phone calls.”
“I can carry things.”
“You complain while carrying things.”
“I can complain and carry things simultaneously.”
“That is true.”
He looked down.
“I’m serious.”
I let the silence stretch.
May you like
The easiest answer would have been no.
I had spent years doing everything at the cabin alone partly because nobody offered and partly because being the only person who cared had become its own kind of identity.
