I walked into the dining room without answering.

The overhead lamp threw a bright white circle across the oak tabletop.

I pressed the third page flat with my palm.

At the very bottom, right under the line for my signature, was an official filing stamp.

The red ink had faded slightly around the edges.

“Something wrong with the printing?” Dean asked, standing in the doorway between the two rooms.

“The date at the top of the notary block,” I said.