Gary cleared his throat, a loud, raspy sound that filled his cramped office, and pulled a white sheet out of a manila folder.

He picked up three yellow legal pads from the corner of his desk and stacked them into a perfectly neat pile beside his lamp.

“This came back from the county recorder’s office twenty minutes ago,” Gary said.

He pushed the paper across the polished wood until it rested against my handbag.

I leaned forward and looked at the bottom of the page.

It was a quitclaim deed for the property on Birch Street.