He pulled out a thick stack of white probate papers bound in a heavy blue paper cover.

Without saying anything, Dean laid the stack of probate documents on the table right next to my plate.

He left the papers face down beside his empty coffee cup when he picked up his coat and drove off at seven.

By eight fifteen Sophie and I were sitting in my old Buick, parked at the far end of the gravel lot by the Blackwood Lake boat ramp.

The evening rain had let up half an hour earlier, but the air outside smelled of wet oak and cold lake water.