Trustee: Manuel C. Ruiz.
Dad stared.
“I don’t know anything about that.”
Inez flipped through the documents.
The trust had been created by my grandfather.
Dad had been named successor trustee.
But apparently nobody had ever notified him properly after my grandfather’s death.
For forty years, minimal property taxes had been paid automatically from a small account attached to the trust.
“How much is it worth?” Derek asked.
Inez shrugged.
“Depends on zoning, access, environmental restrictions, and what the county allows.”
“Could be worthless?”
“Could be.”
Dad almost looked relieved.
I laughed.
“You’re the only man I know who discovers land and hopes it has no value.”
“I already have enough trouble with one property.”
Two days later, we drove out together.
Dad.
Mom.
Derek.
Veronica.
Me.
And Inez, who insisted she was coming because, in her words, “Your family has demonstrated a remarkable ability to discover documents in inconvenient places.”
The road narrowed past town.
Carmona opened into fields and low hills.
The property entrance was nearly hidden behind brush.
An old chain hung from two stone posts, but there was no lock.
We walked in.
The agricultural shed had mostly collapsed.
Behind it stood a smaller building.
That one survived.
The roof sagged slightly, but the frame was intact.
Dad approached it as if he were approaching an old friend.
“My father brought me here once.”
“You remember?” I asked.
“Barely.”
He touched the door.
“I thought I dreamed it.”
Inside, we found stacks of old timber ruined by time, rusted equipment, and shelves containing jars of nails.
On the far wall were initials carved into a beam.
M.R.
Dad ran his fingers over them.
“His.”
Underneath, someone had carved another line.
