Sarah tapped the silver cap of her pen against the margin of the legal pad.

Three short, sharp taps against the paper.

“Did you ever sign an inheritance waiver?” she asked.

“I was twenty-eight,” I said, reaching back to rub my neck.

“The week after the funeral, my mother brought three pages to the kitchen counter.

She told me it was for the insurance transfer.”

Sarah stopped, her fingers resting flat on the legal pad.

“Did you keep a copy of those three pages?”