My husband hurled a dinner plate at my head because I refused to give his mother my apartment and pay her $1,200 every month. - usnews

Claire stood and walked away from the table, one hand over her mouth.

I sat very still.

Nine.

Nine homes. Nine sets of signatures. Nine stories. Nine people who may have been pressured, tricked, or cornered into giving up what belonged to them.

“Were they family?” I asked.

“Some appear to be connected to friends, church members, extended relatives, business acquaintances. I don’t have the full picture.”

“And Genesis?”

“Her name appears in notes on several pages.”

My mind went back to every luncheon she hosted, every grieving widow she “helped,” every cousin who sold a house quickly after a death in the family, every elderly friend she praised for being sensible about downsizing.

Genesis did not shout like Jackson.

She did not throw plates.

She carved.

Slowly. Patiently. At the joints.

Naomi said, “There’s one more thing.”

I gripped the edge of the table.

“The note in your safe may become important, but the missing deed matters more. Do you have any idea where else an original or certified copy might be?”

“My lender has records. The county recorder.”

“Yes, but I mean personally.”

I thought of my files. My office. Safe deposit box? No, I never opened one. My old storage cabinet?

Then I remembered.

“My father’s desk,” I said.

Claire turned back toward me.

After our parents died, Claire and I divided their belongings slowly, sometimes with tenderness, sometimes with arguments, sometimes by avoiding the boxes entirely. I had taken Dad’s old walnut writing desk because I could not bear to see it sold. One drawer stuck unless pulled at the exact angle. Inside was a hidden compartment where he used to keep emergency cash and old letters from our mother.

When I bought the apartment, I placed a certified copy of the deed there as a sentimental gesture more than a practical one. Dad had always believed important papers belonged in important furniture.

“The desk is in my office storage unit,” I said.

“Good,” Naomi replied. “Tomorrow, we retrieve it carefully.”

But tomorrow did not wait.