Vance Legal Services had a narrow storefront between a dry cleaner and a vacuum repair shop.

Inside, it smelled of old paper, cold coffee, and wool coats.

Arthur Vance sat behind a wide oak desk covered in neatly stacked manila folders.

I took the folded quitclaim out of my jacket and laid it flat on his blotter.

“Victoria gave me this at eleven o’clock on the guesthouse porch,” I said.

Arthur Vance picked up the document by the corner, adjusted his gold-rimmed reading glasses, and read the first paragraph.

He carefully tapped his heavy brass pen against his open leather binder three times.