Trevor cleared his throat. “Witnesses are not required for a private note,” he said, but his voice had lost its confidence. Patricia waved her hand as though the question were an insult. “Does it matter? The signature is hers.” I slid the court-stamped filing onto the coffee table beside her briefcase. “It matters because the notary stamp on your note belongs to a man who died four months before that date.”

Nobody moved. Gregory finally looked at me, and I watched the color drain from his face. Then the doorbell rang. Two uniformed officers stood on my porch beside my attorney, and one of them held a folder with Trevor’s name written across the front. “Mr. Trevor Hayes?” he asked. Trevor’s hand began to shake around his phone, and Patricia slowly stood up from my mother’s armchair.