Dennis’s face went gray. “Walter, this is not the time,” he said. The older man only smiled politely and lifted a stamped paper from his folder. “Dennis, it is exactly the time. You signed this at the recorder’s office, and your daughter should hear what it says.”

Kayla’s hand tightened around the keys. Twenty-six relatives stared at the paper. I finally stepped out onto the deck. Walter Briggs, my attorney for nearly ten years, cleared his throat and read the first line aloud. Dennis’s beer slipped from his hand and shattered across the patio stones. “This property,” Walter said, “has belonged solely to Carol Whitman since March of 2017, and the reason is something Dennis never wanted any of you to know.”