The table was littered with empty plastic cups, an open sleeve of crackers, and three paper napkins left from lunch.

Vanessa swept a wide space clear with the back of her forearm, and a plastic cup rolled off the edge and landed against my leather work boots.

She drew a light blue paper folder out of her leather tote and laid it flat on the wood between us.

“What’s that paper?” I asked.

“It’s a quitclaim deed,” she said.

“I got it from the notary’s office downtown yesterday morning at nine.”

I stood at the edge of the table and scraped a little flake of dried varnish off my right thumb with my thumbnail.