Chapter 4: Gerald Fitch
I didn't sleep.
By five in the morning I gave up trying and made coffee and sat at the kitchen table with Michael's letter and the deed and the card for Gerald Fitch laid out in front of me like pieces of a puzzle I wasn't sure I could solve.
At eight o'clock I called the number on the card.
It rang four times.
I was composing a voicemail in my head when someone picked up.
"Fitch Law." A woman's voice, brisk and professional.
"My name is Laura Calloway.
My husband was Michael Calloway.
I believe Gerald Fitch handled some property documents for him — I'm not sure exactly when, but it was at least twelve or thirteen years ago.
Possibly more."
A pause.
"Can you hold, please?"
I held.
I watched the maple tree through the kitchen window.
A cardinal landed on one of the lower branches and sat there, perfectly still.
"Mrs.
Calloway." A man's voice now, older, careful.
"This is Gerald Fitch."
I exhaled.
"Mr.
Fitch.
You're still practicing."
"Semi-retired.
I keep a small caseload." A pause.
"I've been wondering if someone from Michael's family would call eventually.
I was sorry to read his obituary."
"You saw it?"
"I make a point of following up on clients I haven't heard from in a while.
Michael was on my list." His voice was measured, deliberate.
"I have a complete file.
The deed, the correspondence, the signed releases from two of his sisters, and the record of payment to the third."
"Rhonda."
"Yes."
"She's claiming the house belongs to them."
A silence that felt like a man choosing his words very carefully.
"Mrs.
Calloway, I'd like you to come to my office today if you're able.
Bring whatever Michael left you.
I'll bring my file.
Between the two, I believe we can have a very clear conversation."
"Can you tell me anything now?
Just — is there a case?
Do they have a real claim?"
"Donna never signed her release," he said.
"That is a genuine legal complication.
However." He paused again.
"There are other documents in my file that Rhonda may not know exist.
Documents that Michael asked me to hold until they were needed."
My hand tightened on the phone.
"What kind of documents?"
"The kind that answer questions," Gerald Fitch said quietly, "before they're even asked."
I was in my car twenty minutes later.
Gerald Fitch's office was in a low brick building on the edge of the older part of town, the kind of neighborhood where the trees were tall and the parking was free and the lawyers had been practicing long enough to remember when the courthouse still had a rotunda.
A woman named Helen showed me to a conference room with a long oak table and a window that looked out onto a small courtyard.
Gerald Fitch came in carrying a manila folder so thick it had been rubber-banded twice.
He was in his late seventies, silver-haired, with the careful posture of a man who had spent decades sitting across from people in crisis and had learned not to show alarm.
He set the folder on the table.
"Before I open this," he said, "I want to ask you something.
In the letter Michael left — did he mention why he never resolved the situation with Donna while he was alive?"
"He said he kept thinking he had more time."
Gerald nodded slowly.
"That's consistent with what he told me.
He contacted me again about eight months ago.
He knew by then that he was running out of time.
He asked me to prepare a second set of documents." He looked at me steadily.
"He also asked me to prepare a sworn affidavit."
"About what?"
Gerald opened the folder.
He turned it so I could see the top page.
"About what Rhonda did," he said, "fourteen years ago, to make sure her name stayed on that deed."
I looked at the page.
I read the first paragraph.
The cardinal was still on the maple branch when I got home three hours later.
Or maybe it was a different cardinal.
I stood on the porch for a moment before going inside, my hand on the door frame, the folder under my arm.
My phone rang.
Rhonda.
I let it ring.
It rang again immediately.
I answered.
"I've been trying to reach you all morning," she said.
Her voice had a new edge in it — not quite anger, not quite fear.
Something between the two.
"I was busy," I said.
"Laura." A pause.
"I think we got off on the wrong foot.
Maybe we should sit down together.
The three of us — me, Patrice, Donna.
Talk this through like family."
I looked at the folder in my hand.
"That's a good idea," I said.
"Let's do that.
Tomorrow.
At the house."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
"Fine," Rhonda said.
"Tomorrow."
She hung up.
I stood in the hallway for a moment.
Then I called David.
"They want to meet tomorrow," I said.
"At the house."
"Do you want me there?"
"Yes," I said.
May you like
"And I want you to call Gerald Fitch tonight.
He has something you need to see before tomorrow morning."
