Conor read the note on the back of the lease, and his face went slowly pale. “This is a joke,” he said. “My father would never.” I told him calmly that the signature was witnessed by the baker downstairs, who was still alive and still remembered the day. I also told him I had a draft for thirty-eight thousand euro, ready to hand over that very afternoon.

Conor laughed, but the laugh cracked. He picked up the phone and called his solicitor, and I sat quietly in a leather chair, my hands folded on my lap. After ten minutes of low, tense talk, he put down the receiver and stared at the lease. “She says it might hold up,” he whispered. “She says it depends on one more thing.” Then someone knocked on the glass door. The full story continues in the first comment.