She placed a call to her Misty River real estate agent. After what felt like more than enough time exchanging empty pleasantries, but may not have been enough time (Leah never knew), Leah informed the older woman that she had a question.

“All right. How can I help?”

“Is there a way, using home ownership records, for me to type in the name of a person who lives in a certain town, and discover which house is theirs?” She winced. The question sounded ripe with unpleasant, potentially illegal motivations. Perhaps the opening pleasantries had been wasted on this conversation.

“Are you thinking about investing in real estate?” the agent asked. “Oftentimes investors will want to access to the names so they can send notes to owners, letting them know they’re interested in buying their home.”

“No, I’m not interested in investing in real estate at this time. Maybe someday.”

A few confused seconds of silence passed.

“You can access a seller’s name on MLS,” the older woman said, “which is used by real estate agents.”

“And if the property is not for sale?”

“Some appraisal districts have websites. In that case, you’d go to the appraisal district’s site and search for a property by owner name.”

“Excellent! Thanks so much.”

Within seconds, they disconnected.

Leah hunted the web until she found appraisal district sites for the counties nearest the house where Trina and Jonathan had lived at the time of her birth. Fulton County. Gwinnett. Forsyth. DeKalb. Cobb. And finally, Cherokee. Each time, she ran a property search by owner’s name.

Each time, she found no properties.

Chewing on her bottom lip, she peered through the windows at the comfortingly familiar curves and dips of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

On a fresh wave of inspiration, she swiveled back to the screen. She found an appraisal district database for her own county, Rabun, and input the name Sebastian Grant.

This time fortune smiled upon her.

He owned property at 1248 Black Cherry Lane.

What an excellent house number. 1, 2, 4, 8. Each subsequent number doubled the one that came before. Very promising.

Tomorrow was Saturday, and he often spent his weekends in Misty River. She’d already been planning to go walking tomorrow for exercise. So instead of a hiking trail, why not amend her plans?

She’d walk past his house instead.

The next day she parked a mile away from Sebastian’s address and set out on the three-mile loop she’d charted. Striding at her fastest clip, she started in a neighborhood of half-acre lots. Gradually, the lots grew bigger. Then bigger, until nature surrounded her on both sides. The road plateaued before climbing steeply.