Chapter 3: What Michael Knew
I set the phone face-down on the kitchen table without hanging up.
My hands were shaking badly enough that the papers rustled on their own.
I smoothed them flat against the table and started from the beginning.
*Laura,*
*If you're reading this, then I didn't get enough time to explain it to you in person.
I'm sorry for that.
I'm sorry for a lot of things.
But most of all, I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner what my sisters did.*
I had to stop.
I read that line again.
*What my sisters did.*
I turned to the second document.
It was a deed — our deed — but the date on it was wrong.
It was dated fourteen months before Michael and I were married.
And the names on it were not ours alone.
Rhonda's name was on it.
So was her sister Patrice's.
And the third sister, Donna.
All three of them.
Co-owners of record.
My legs stopped working.
I sat down on the kitchen floor with my back against the cabinet, the way I used to sit when Michael and I were first married and too poor for proper furniture.
The linoleum was cold through my jeans.
I kept reading the letter.
*When Dad left me the house, he put all four of us on the deed.
I didn't know until after we were engaged.
I went to them and asked them to sign their shares over to me.
Rhonda agreed — but only if I paid her.
I did.
I have the receipt.
Patrice signed without asking for anything.
Donna refused.*
*I hired a lawyer.
He said Donna's refusal complicated things but didn't stop me from living there or from transferring my share to you.
He drew up documents.
I signed them.
Donna was supposed to sign.
She never did.*
*I kept thinking I had more time to fix it.*
I pressed my hand flat against the floor.
The cold helped.
*The receipt for Rhonda's payment is in the folder behind this letter.
Patrice's signed release is there too.
The lawyer's name is Gerald Fitch.
His number is on his card, which is clipped to the back of this page.
He has copies of everything.*
I flipped to the back of the letter.
The card was there, a little yellowed at the edges, Gerald Fitch, Estate and Property Law, a phone number with a local area code.
I sat on that floor for a long time.
Then I picked up the phone.
Rhonda had hung up at some point.
I didn't call her back.
I called my own lawyer instead — the one I'd spoken to that afternoon.
"David," I said when he answered.
"I found something."
"Tell me."
"Michael left a letter.
There's a deed.
His sister Donna never signed a release.
But there's a receipt showing Rhonda was paid for her share, and a signed release from Patrice." I paused.
"And there's a lawyer named Gerald Fitch who apparently has copies of everything."
David was quiet for a moment.
"Do you know if Gerald Fitch is still practicing?"
"I don't know anything right now."
"All right.
Bring everything tomorrow.
All of it." Another pause.
"Laura — don't call Rhonda tonight."
"I wasn't going to."
"Good.
And don't let anyone into that house."
I looked around the kitchen.
Michael's coffee mug was still on the counter where I'd left it two days ago, unable to put it in the cupboard.
His handwriting was still warm in my hands.
"I won't," I said.
I hung up and sat back down on the floor.
Outside, the maple tree moved in the wind.
We had planted it together the summer we got married.
Michael had dug the hole too shallow the first time and I had laughed at him and he had laughed too, and we had dug it again, deeper, the right way.
My phone lit up on the table above me.
A text from a number I didn't recognize.
*You should know that Rhonda has already spoken to a judge.
May you like
This is further along than you think.
— A friend.*
