“She has an opening on Tuesday at one thirty,” the receptionist said.

“Put me down for Tuesday,” I said.

I wrote the appointment date on my desk calendar, closed the cream folder holding Eleanor’s deed, and locked it in my lower desk drawer.

At seven o’clock that evening, Daniel sat on the living room rug in our Lakewood home, surrounded by folders and yellow paper receipts from his consulting business.

I walked into the room and set the folded bank printout on top of his stack of receipts.

“Frank Vance printed three months of joint bank statements for me today.”