She printed the deed abstract on a noisy dot-matrix printer behind her chair, tore off the perforated edges, and pushed it across to me.

The address at the top of the page was a rural route box number off Highway 41, just over the county line.

I walked back to my car, which I’d parked two streets away so the GPS unit in my truck wouldn’t log where I was, and sat in the front seat with the engine idling.

My phone rang on the console.

Tiffany was calling.