He did not know.

On the seventh of January, in a vault room, eighty-five days after he threw a bank book onto his mother’s coffin and sent a lawyer to put a letter under my door asserting that her house was an estate asset, my father read the name of the instrument on a document and asked what it was.

And Dean Hollifield, in his coat, beside him, said nothing at all.

Part Thirty-Two: Would Not Sign