For six years, Charles and Brenda had believed I worked as a thirty-four-thousand-dollar-a-year administrative clerk in the county traffic division, a low-level job they made fun of at every family dinner.

I unrolled the document all the way and ran my fingers over the dark red wax seal stamped in the bottom left corner.

When I was twenty-eight, Charles had used his real estate political connections to make a municipal code violation against one of his commercial building projects disappear, laughing over cognac about how easy it was to buy local enforcement.

He believed the whole justice system worked like the county zoning board, run on personal favors, quiet phone calls, and well-placed campaign donations.