SHE WHO REMEMBERS THE GHOSTS WE FEED BENEATH THE PALE AUTUMN OAK

"You have the wrong house," Elena said, stepping defensively in front of Clara. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she sized up the man blocking her only path back to the patio door. "My father passed away three years ago. There is no property assessment pending."

Agent Miller took two slow, deliberate steps closer, his polished leather shoes crunching on the frost-covered grass. He didn't look like a government assessor; he moved with the predatory grace of someone who spent his life breaking into homes and auditing secrets rather than square footage.

"Files have a funny way of staying active long after the ink dries, Mrs. Vance," Miller said, his gaze flicking briefly to the green container resting on the wooden bench before returning to Elena’s face. "Especially when certain assets haven't been properly accounted for. Your father was a meticulous man. He kept records of everything—leases, timber rights, and a few very interesting deposits made offshore just before his retirement."

"He was a retired high school history teacher," Elena retorted, her voice trembling despite her best efforts to sound steady. "He didn't have offshore accounts or timber rights. He had a pension and a stubborn streak a mile wide."

"People often surprise their families," Miller replied smoothly, slipping his hands into the pockets of his expensive wool coat. "Take this yard, for instance. A lovely spot for a quiet afternoon snack. Your daughter seems particularly fond of it. Tell me, does she often come out here to talk to ghosts, or was today a special occasion?"

Clara stepped out from behind Elena’s skirt, her small chin held high. "He was right here. He ate his apples. And he said you're looking for something you'll never find because the floorboard is already nailed down."