Chapter 2
Naomi read the date twice before she understood why her stomach had tightened. Ruth Reed had died in February. The signature beside Ruth’s printed name was dated March eighteenth.
Caleb waited against the hallway wall, twisting the strap of his backpack. The reception coordinator opened the door a crack and asked whether Naomi wanted the cake delayed. Naomi told her to close the door and keep the guests away.
“Grandma couldn’t sign in March,” Caleb said. “That’s what I told Aunt Evelyn.”
“What did she say?”
“She said dead people sign things before they die, and the dates don’t always matter.”
Naomi crouched beside him. The document looked like a photocopy of a proposed deed packet, not a recorded deed. A page behind it contained a notary acknowledgment. Her father had worked as a courthouse clerk; she knew enough to understand that a printed form proved little without confirmation. She also knew a child had no reason to invent the timing.
“Where did you find these?”
“In Dad’s printer.” Caleb swallowed. “It kept making the same page because it was stuck. He said it was garbage.”
Marcus appeared at the far end of the corridor. Evelyn followed, holding her phone so tightly her knuckles had whitened.
“Naomi, this is turning into a spectacle,” Marcus said. “Give me five minutes.”
“You can have five minutes to answer why a document appears to bear Ruth’s signature after she died.”
He stopped. Evelyn walked past him and reached for the paper.
“Absolutely not,” Naomi said, moving it out of reach.
Evelyn gave a brittle laugh. “You’re trusting a third grader over the people who paid for your wedding?”
“I’m asking about a date.”
“The forms were prepared after Ruth died. That’s all.”
“Then who signed them?”
Evelyn looked at Marcus. He looked toward the ballroom doors. Caleb stared at his shoes.
“Naomi,” Marcus said, softer now, “Mom left the house to me. The paperwork is complicated. Daniel is helping with the estate.”
“Daniel Daniels?”
“A real estate investor.”
“Why is his name on our wedding invitation?”
Marcus exhaled. “He helped secure the venue. I wanted to thank him.”
“Then why was his name written on the inside, not printed with the hosts?”
“It was a seating note.”
Evelyn nodded too quickly. Naomi noticed. The answer should have come from one person, not two, and they had practiced nothing beyond insisting she stop asking.
Caleb tugged Naomi’s sleeve. “He gave Dad an envelope. It was the day the yellow notice went on the door.”
Marcus’s face flushed. “That’s enough, Caleb.”
The boy flinched. Naomi felt it through his hand.
“You will not speak to him like that,” she said.
“I am his father.”
“Then act like someone he can ask a question without shaking.”
Evelyn glanced toward the ballroom, where the guests were beginning to leave their seats. “If you keep this up, you'll ruin everyone’s day.”
Naomi remembered how Marcus had once praised her for apologizing when a waiter spilled wine on her dress. He had called her gracious. She now wondered how often grace had meant silence.
She took a picture of each page on her phone, including the faint numbers near the bottom. Marcus saw her and lunged for the document. Caleb cried out.
Naomi stepped back. The paper tore along a crease in her hand, but her photos were already saved.
“You’re making a mistake,” Marcus said.
“Maybe,” Naomi replied. “But it won’t be the mistake of ignoring him.”
Through the ballroom doors came the muted sound of a hundred conversations. Naomi placed the torn paper back in Caleb’s bag and asked the coordinator to bring a car to the side entrance.
“Where are you going?” Marcus demanded.
“To see the house.”
Caleb watched Naomi photograph the pages and asked whether a picture counted if someone ripped up the paper afterward. She told him a photograph could help preserve what it showed, but a judge might still need the original, the person who made it, and records from other places. He listened with grave attention. He had been raised around adults who declared things true simply by saying them loudly. The idea that truth could be checked was new and almost comforting. Naomi placed each sheet flat on a console table before taking its picture, making sure the corners and identification numbers were visible. She resisted an impulse to crop out a coffee stain, because the stain itself might later help establish where the page had been. A wedding guest knocked at the corridor door and called that dinner was getting cold. Naomi looked at Caleb. He had eaten half a bread roll that morning and nothing since. Whatever happened next, she realized, he needed food and somewhere to sleep far more than the guests needed their dinner.
May you like
His expression hardened. “You can't. The locks have already been changed.”
Caleb lifted his head sharply. It was Thursday. The notice said Friday.
