The original deed proved the Maple Street house belonged wholly to the family trust, with no part of it tied up by Frank’s forged claim.

I held the dusty 1984 abstract against my chest in Bennett’s closet.

The heavy 1984 paper fit into the inside lining of my winter coat, flat against the wool where nobody could see a bulge.

I zipped my jacket up to my chin before going downstairs at eight the next morning.

A white sheriff’s deputy cruiser was idling at the curb behind Frank’s black pickup.

Deputy Miller stood on the porch holding a yellow carbon copy with a bright red notice stamped along the top.