He stepped out onto the frosty grass, took out his thin wire-rimmed glasses, and polished them carefully with a microfiber cloth before setting them on his nose.

“Morning, Madison,” Arthur said, coming to the foot of the porch steps.

“Morning, Arthur.

Is that the final clearance from the probate clerk?”

“It is,” Arthur said, pulling a blue-backed legal dossier out of the envelope.

“Judge Margaret Reynolds signed the closing order at nine fifteen this morning.”

I took the thick stack of paper from him, the certified court seal cold under my thumbs.

“What’s the final figure on the restored balance?” I asked.