“My brother runs a print shop over on Fifth Street,” Edward said, his voice flat and even.

“He handles legal notices and county deed filings every single week, so I know how the clerk logs these property transfers.”

“What’s on Birch Street?” I asked.

“Number four twelve,” he said.

“It’s a six-bedroom Victorian.”

“Max told me two weeks ago that he was sleeping on a folding couch in a studio apartment near the highway,” I said.

“He lied,” Edward said.

“Can a person just go buy a massive Victorian house without his ex-wife knowing?” I asked.