It was a proposed contract for improvements to the neighborhood's eastern access road.
The estimated value was more than four hundred thousand dollars.
I looked up.
"That's a significant project."
She nodded.
"It's supposed to include a new entrance, landscaping, drainage improvements, and access-control equipment."
I thought about the old developer's letters.
"Through the wooded area near my garage?"
She nodded again.
"Yes."
I looked down.
The proposed route crossed the eastern edge of my property.
Exactly where my father had refused to grant an easement years earlier.
I stared at the drawing.
"Did the board approve this?"
The treasurer hesitated.
"That's part of the problem."
She removed another document.
It was a set of minutes from a special board meeting held several months earlier.
According to the record, the association had approved the project unanimously.
But the treasurer's signature appeared on the approval page.
And she was telling me she hadn't voted for it.
I looked up.
"You're saying this is inaccurate?"
She nodded.
"I wasn't even at that meeting."
I stared at the document.
She continued.
"I was in the hospital visiting my sister. I told the president in writing that I couldn't attend, and I asked for the decision to be postponed."
She opened another folder.
Inside was an email confirming her absence.
The dates matched.
I leaned back.
"Have you challenged the minutes?"
"Several times."
"What happened?"
"She told me the vote had been taken through written consent."
I looked at the approval sheet.
"Did you sign one?"
"No."
The diner's refrigerator hummed quietly behind the counter.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she reached into her bag and removed another page.
"This is why I called you."
It was a document titled Consent to Annexation and Access Agreement.
The property description referred to my father's parcel.
I felt my stomach tighten.
Near the bottom was a signature.
My father's name.
Written in a careful imitation of his handwriting.
I stared at it.
Then I looked at the date.
My father had died almost three years before that document was supposedly signed.
The signature was dated eleven months earlier.
For a moment, the words on the page seemed to blur.
I looked toward the treasurer.
"Where did you get this?"
"It was attached to the latest development package."