Robert hadn’t just misread an old tenancy law or miscalculated county tax assessments.

He had sat down in a Chesapeake mail shop three months ago and traced his dead father’s signature onto a commercial land option.

Knox sat on the braided rug beside my chair and rested his heavy chin on my boots.

“He did it while Thomas was still in hospice,” I said to the dark room.

The small clock on the mantel ticked once every second.

My father had been counting up three hundred forty thousand dollars while his own father lay dying in a room overlooking Hampton Roads.