“Jerome is sixty-five and moves like winter mud,” Scott said, his voice rising a fraction as he took a step closer. “We do not have the luxury of waiting around while the state decides how to value the real estate. If we wait, we lose the window to sell before the market drops.”
He laid the blue folder on the mantelpiece, right next to the brass candlestick my mother had given us for our wedding.
The paper made a dry, sliding sound against the polished oak, a sound that seemed too loud in the quiet room.
“Sign the top three pages now, and I can drop them off at the register of deeds first thing in the morning,” he said, gesturing toward his desk down the hall.
I looked at the top document, where my name, Avery Lynn Collins, was printed in cold, block letters next to his.
“I want to read through them first,” I said.
Scott drew his breath in sharply, his thumb brushing the bezel of his gold watch again, his jaw tightening.
