His paralegal, a meticulous young woman named Ms.

Reyes who never once got a date wrong, was calling to confirm what I already knew.

The fifty thousand dollars Trent had drained in November had been wired back on the ninth, less the transfer fee.

And the county had recorded the deed correction on the house.

“All clean?” I asked her.

“All clean.”

I hung up and stood there still holding the screwdriver.

Then I took down one of the new mugs, filled it with coffee, and drank it standing at the island, something I hadn’t done in that kitchen since the day we signed the purchase papers.