“Original,” he said. “Good.”
He went through the trust documents. The distribution papers. The recording from the county, when the house passed from the trust to me.
“This is clean,” he said. “Your grandfather knew what he was doing. Or he had somebody who did.” He turned another page. “Your father’s never been on this title. Not once. Not even in the trust. He was never a beneficiary.”
“He thinks he should have been.”
“Lots of people think lots of things,” Dalton said. “The county only cares what’s recorded.”
He kept going. He was almost at the end of the folder.
Then suddenly, he stopped.
“Hold on.”
He turned toward the very back of the folder. There was a pocket there, sewn into the inside of the back cover. I’d never noticed it. The folder had been sitting in that safe for years, and I’d only ever looked at the deed on top.
Dalton reached into the pocket and pulled out an envelope.
A thick, cream-colored envelope. Sealed. Yellowed a little at the corners.
He looked at the front of it. Then he slid it across the desk toward me.
“That yours?”
On the front of the envelope, in my grandfather’s handwriting, in blue ink, were three words.
For Katie. Only if.
My hands started shaking.
I hadn’t seen my grandfather’s handwriting in seven years. It was square and slanted and a little shaky, the way it got near the end. I’d know it anywhere.
“I’ve never seen this before,” I said.
“Well,” said Dalton gently, “I think it’s been waiting for you.”
I looked at Captain Morales. She nodded.
I opened it.
Inside were two things.
The first was a letter. Two pages, folded in thirds. The second was a document, several pages stapled together, with a notary’s stamp on the last page.
