“A truck can haul away wood and paper, Mara,” Claire said.

“It can’t haul away what was done to us.”

“Howard Cobb needs physical proof for the probate judge,” I said.

“Gene is clearing every record out of that house before November 24.”

Claire reached into her coat pocket and took out a sheet of yellow legal paper.

“Howard has the 1990 custody filing, and we have what Frank put in your hand at the hospice.”

I reached into my own coat pocket and touched the notched brass key Frank had given me before he died, feeling its cold metal edges against my palm.