I folded it into my coat pocket and buttoned the flap shut.

Edward Miller met me at Birwood Lane at noon with two more boxes of probate papers stacked in his arms and his wire glasses sitting lopsided on his nose.

We worked on the floor of the study because the desk was buried under Grandma’s sewing, and neither of us wanted to be the person who moved it.

“Your grandmother saved every receipt since 1979,” Edward said, wiping a lens with his handkerchief.

“She saved a receipt for a rake.”