"No," Clara said. "It's the reason for the investigation."
The second officer shifted his weight.
Hayes remained silent.
Elijah noticed something.
The officers weren't looking at the road.
They were looking at the farm.
At the barns.
At the fields.
At the farmhouse.
It reminded him of the first time a developer had visited several months earlier.
The man had walked around as though the land already belonged to him.
Elijah had never forgotten that feeling.
"Sergeant Hayes," he said, "we have owned this property for generations."
Hayes replied carefully.
"I understand that's your position."
"My position?"
Elijah's voice became firmer.
"It's not a position. It's documented ownership."
Clara placed a hand on her husband's shoulder.
"Don't argue."
Elijah nodded.
The officers eventually left.
But before they drove away, Hayes looked through the windshield toward the farmhouse.
His expression was unreadable.
That afternoon, Elijah found two more stakes.
One near the creek.
Another beside the old barn.
That evening, Clara called the county recorder.
She asked about Parcel B-17.
The clerk searched the database.
Then she went silent.
"What is it?" Clara asked.
"I don't know."
"You just searched the parcel number."
"I did."
"And?"
"The parcel exists."
Clara felt a chill.
"Who owns it?"
There was another pause.
"According to the database, you do."
Clara looked across the kitchen at Elijah.
"That's impossible."
The clerk continued.
"But there's something strange."
"What?"
"The parcel was created three weeks ago."
Elijah slowly stood.
"Three weeks?"
"Yes."
"Who authorized it?"
The clerk hesitated.
"I can't discuss that over the phone."
The line went dead.
Clara placed the receiver down.
Elijah looked at the documents spread across the table.
Then he looked toward the dark window.
Someone had created a new parcel on land that already belonged to him.
And somebody had convinced the county database that the new parcel was legitimate.
The next morning, Elijah made a decision.
He would not fight rumors.
He would not fight threats.
He would fight with records.
Every document.
Every date.
Every name.
Every photograph.
Because if someone wanted to erase his family's history, Elijah Johnson intended to make that history impossible to ignore.
By Sunday morning, the red stakes had multiplied.
There were seven.
Clara counted them from the porch.
Elijah counted them from the truck.
Neither liked the number.
At First Providence Baptist Church, people were already talking.
Mrs. Jenkins approached Clara before the service.
"They came to my property too."
Clara looked at her.
"Who?"
"Surveyors."
"How long ago?"
"Three weeks."
Mrs. Jenkins lowered her voice.
"They told me they were mapping drainage routes."
Clara frowned.
"Did you authorize it?"
"No."
Another farmer joined them.
His name was Walter Greene.
"They came to my place six weeks ago."
"Same company?" Elijah asked.
Walter nodded.
"Redstone."
A quiet conversation became a gathering.
Soon, half a dozen families were discussing similar incidents.
Some had received letters.
Some had received low purchase offers.
One family had discovered a new access road drawn across their property on a county planning map.
Another had been told their land might be subject to an easement they had never heard of.
Reverend Thomas listened carefully.
After the service, he invited everyone to remain.
"We shouldn't assume every mistake is deliberate," he said.
Elijah nodded.
"But we also shouldn't assume every mistake is harmless."
The congregation agreed.
Clara suggested creating a shared record.
"Every visit gets documented."
"What if someone refuses to give their name?" Walter asked.
"Write down what you remember," Clara replied. "Date. Time. Vehicle. Description. Everything."
Reverend Thomas smiled.
"Mrs. Johnson has been keeping records longer than some of us have been alive."
Clara laughed.
"I learned from my husband."
Elijah shook his head.
"She was keeping records before she met me."
The room relaxed.
But beneath the laughter was fear.
The farmers knew what could happen when people became exhausted.
First came letters.
Then meetings.
Then pressure.
Then someone offered money.
Then someone threatened litigation.
Eventually, a family became tired and sold.
Clara understood that exhaustion could be more powerful than a legal argument.
That evening, she sat on the porch with Elijah.
"We need Tyron."
Elijah stared into the yard.
Their son had been away from Alabama for years.
Tyron had joined the Marines after high school.
Military life had taken him across the country and overseas.
He rarely talked about his work.
When Clara asked, he usually said, "I'm fine, Ma."