There was food scattered across the marble floor.

Carol drove to see Philip Greer herself.

She told me about it afterward, sitting across from me at her office desk with a legal pad in front of her and her reading glasses pushed up on her head.

"He opened the door before I finished knocking," she said.

"I think he'd been expecting someone to come for a long time."

"What did he say?"

"He said he needed a few minutes.

He went to a back room and came out with a shoebox." She looked at her notes.

"Inside the shoebox was a personal ledger.

Handwritten.

Going back to 2001.

He'd recorded every document he'd notarized — date, parties, property, and a column he'd labeled 'notes.'"

"What kind of notes?"

"Flags.

Anything that felt wrong to him.

Any document where he hadn't personally witnessed the signing, or where he'd been asked to backdate, or where the signature didn't match the ID he'd been shown." She tapped the legal pad.

"The 2004 transfer document for this property is in the ledger.

His note reads: *signature provided separately, not witnessed in person, payment in cash, instructed not to record.*"

I stared at her.

"He kept a record of it."

"He kept a record of everything.

He said he did it because he was afraid.

He said he knew what he was doing was wrong and he thought if he ever needed to defend himself, he'd need proof of what he'd actually been asked to do." Carol set the legal pad down.

"He's been carrying that shoebox around for twenty years."

"Will he testify?"

"He wants immunity from civil liability first.

His attorney — he called one while I was there — is going to reach out to us formally.

But yes.

He wants to talk." She paused.

"He also told me who contacted him in 2004.

Who arranged the document.

Who paid him."

"Evelyn."

"Not directly.

It was arranged through an intermediary — a man who worked as a property manager for the family at the time.

But Greer says Evelyn was present at the meeting where the arrangement was made.

He can place her in the room."

I sat back.

The afternoon light was coming through Carol's office window at a low angle, falling across the desk, across the legal pad, across the shoebox sitting on the corner of her desk that she had brought back with her as evidence.

Twenty years in a shoebox.

"How long until this is resolved?" I asked.

"If Greer cooperates fully and his testimony holds up, Evelyn's challenge collapses.

The cognitive incapacity claim falls apart without a credible medical foundation, and the 2004 transfer is void." Carol folded her hands on the desk.

"But Evelyn's attorney is good.

They'll try to discredit Greer.

His license was revoked — they'll use that.

They'll argue his ledger is self-serving.

We'll need Gerald's testimony, Dr.

Marsh's records, and Ruth's original deed all working together."

"We have all of that."

"We do." She met my eyes.

"I want you to be prepared for the possibility that Evelyn makes one more move before this gets to a hearing.

People in her position, when they realize they're losing, sometimes do something drastic."

"What kind of drastic?"

"I don't know yet." Carol picked up her pen.

"But I'd like you to be careful.

Keep Noah's routine as normal as possible.

Don't let her have access to the house.

And if she contacts you directly again, record the conversation."

I drove home in the early dark, the city lights coming on around me, the radio off.

When I got home, Noah was at the kitchen table with Daniel.

They were doing homework together.

Daniel had his reading glasses on and was frowning at a math worksheet in the particular way he always frowned at math, and Noah was explaining something to him with great patience, pointing at numbers with his pencil.

I stood in the doorway for a moment without saying anything.

Daniel looked up.

"How did it go?" he asked.

"Good," I said.

"Really good."

Noah looked up too.

"Did you win?" he asked.

"Not yet," I said.

"But we're close."

Noah nodded seriously and went back to explaining the math to his father.

I went to the kitchen and started making dinner, and for a few minutes the only sounds in the house were Noah's voice, the scratch of a pencil, and water running in the sink.

It was the most normal the house had felt in days.

And that was when my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I dried my hands and answered.

Breathing.

Then a voice — low, male, unfamiliar.

"You should know," the voice said, "that Evelyn has a meeting tomorrow morning with a man named Strickland.

He's a private investigator.

She's hired him to find something on you.