I sat down on the bottom step of the staircase, because my legs had gone cold and the parlor felt too far from the front door, and I read the draft.

Three pages, stapled twice.

The quitclaim on page one, for one dollar and other good and valuable consideration, whatever that’s worth on paper.

The twenty thousand dollars on page three, in a paragraph of its own, next to a notary block nobody had signed.

Page two held clause seven.

Eleven lines, single-spaced, printed in smaller type than everything else.

Mutual release, it said.

Then all claims of any kind, known or unknown, arising from the management or handling of the accounts of Ruth E.