I took the blue folder from the living room mantel and carried it up to the spare bedroom, locking the door behind me.
The next morning at nine o’clock, the sun was thin and pale through the tall windows of Jerome Carter’s office.
Jerome sat behind his mahogany desk, a brass desk lamp casting a circle of bright light over the quitclaim deeds I had laid before him.
He picked up a small silk cloth from his vest pocket and began to slowly clean his wire-rimmed glasses, choosing each word before he spoke.
“He was very eager for you to sign these, then,” Jerome said, his voice deep and deliberate.
“He wanted them done last night,” I said, sitting forward in my chair. “He said they were just standard procedure for the estate taxes.”
Jerome put his glasses back on, adjusting them carefully behind his ears.
He took the first deed and turned it over under the lamp, his thumb tracing the empty signature line.
“If you sign this document, Avery, you are relinquishing every claim to the Oak Creek house and the Briar Point property.”
