It was the paper Frank had used to put us out on the sidewalk, stamped with the stolen seal.

I took the document across the room to the brick fireplace.

The hearth was swept clean and empty, but two dry split logs lay across the iron grate.

I struck a wooden match on the stone mantel and held the yellow flame to the corner of the forged land transfer.

The white paper caught at once, the black ink of my forged C curling up as the heat moved across the sheet.

I stood at the mantel and watched the flames eat up the fake parcel numbers, the phony trust clause and the notary assistant’s stolen seal.