Three people sat around my kitchen table: my attorney, Ms. Okafor, my son Brandon, and a young woman in a green coat clutching her purse. Russell’s grin vanished. “Tessa?” he whispered. She did not look at him. Instead, she pushed a thick folder across the table and said, “Tell them what you told me about this house, Russell.” His suitcases slipped from his fingers and thumped onto the hallway floor.

I closed the front door behind him, and Joan slipped in just before it latched. Ms. Okafor opened the folder, drew out a single page, and read the first line aloud. “Mr. Mercer, this is a loan application listing this house as your sole property, signed two weeks ago.” Russell’s mouth fell open. Tessa covered her face. Then Ms. Okafor turned to the second page and said quietly, “And this is where it gets worse.”