“He has investigators,” Arthur said. “He has probably had them since Julian was admitted to the hospital.”
Arthur reached into his desk and pulled out a long, narrow package wrapped in stiff, dark oilskin, tied with a simple piece of twine.
“This is the original deed from nineteen seventy-four,” Arthur said, placing it in my hands. “Keep it safe, Nora. Do not leave it in your apartment.”
I held the bundle, the oilskin cool and textured against my palms. It felt incredibly heavy for a piece of paper, carrying the weight of a family’s entire history and the quiet determination of a man who had trusted me with his final hours.
Nora staring at the legal deed wrapped in oilskin, realizing its immense weight.
The diner smelled of burnt onions and floor wax. I sat in the corner booth with a plate of rye toast and a cup of black coffee that had gone cold ten minutes ago. Across the street, the gray stone steps of the probate courthouse were slick with grease from the city buses.
