I stepped forward once and laid the signed quitclaim deed flat on the dining table beside Lily’s empty plate.

Vanessa hooked the crisp blue envelope toward her with one long fingernail.

Her silver ring scraped across the dark wood of the dining table with a sharp, dry rasp.

“This paper doesn’t mean a thing,” she said.

“Read page two,” I told her.

She flipped the heavy sheet over with quick, jerky motions.

Her hand halted halfway down the page, where the raised notary seal pressed a rough circle into the thick paper.

“That’s Rob’s handwriting,” she whispered.