On top I laid the county tax lien printout showing Harry’s pending foreclosure.

“How many of these folders are we making?” Nora asked.

“Six,” I said.

“One for Arthur Peterson, one for the township police sergeant, three for the longtime neighbors on the board, and one for Harry.”

“And Trent?” Nora asked.

“He was out at the curb an hour ago with his gym bag.”

“Trent’s just the noise,” I said.

“Harry sent him to start a fight so he could say I assaulted a minor and tie my title up in court.”