The receptionist looked up from her desk. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m here for the Vance closing,” I said. My voice was calm and steady. “I’m Dorothy Vance.”

Her eyes widened slightly. She checked her computer screen. “Oh. There are only two people listed on the sheet.”

“There is a third chair,” I said. “And I think they are expecting me.”

She hesitated, then stood up. “Right this way, Mrs. Vance.”

She led me down a carpeted hallway to a large conference room with glass walls.

Through the glass, I could see them. Ray was sitting at the end of a long mahogany table, looking over a stack of papers.

Next to him sat Heather. She was wearing a bright yellow sundress that looked far too young for her.

She had long, highlighted hair. The very same hair Tina had been foiling on Friday.

They were laughing. Ray reached over and patted her hand. It was a gesture of pure affection, the kind he hadn’t shown me in 10 years.

The closing agent, a young man in a blue suit, was sitting across from them, holding a pen.

The receptionist opened the door. “Excuse me,” she said. “We have another guest for the Vance closing.”

Ray looked up. The smile vanished from his face so fast it was almost comical.

His eyes went wide. His skin turned a sickly shade of gray. He looked like he had just seen a ghost.

“Dotty?” he gasped. His voice was cracked and thin.

He tried to stand up, but his knees seemed to fail him. He fell back into his leather chair with a dull thud.

Heather turned her head, her curls bouncing. She looked confused, then defensive.

“Who is this, Ray?” she asked, her voice high and sharp.

I walked into the room. I didn’t rush. I walked with the slow, deliberate grace my mother had taught me.

I pulled out the heavy leather chair directly across from them. I sat down and folded my hands on the table.

The closing agent looked back and forth between us, sensing the sudden shift in the air. “Is there a problem?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, looking straight at Ray. “There is a very big problem.”

“Dotty, please,” Ray stammered, his hands trembling as he tried to cover the papers on the table. “We can talk about this at home. This is a business meeting.”

“It certainly is,” I agreed. “And I am here to talk about my business.”

I opened my handbag and pulled out the copies of the Ohio probate records. I slid them across the polished wood.

“This house is being purchased with money that belongs to Eleanor’s estate,” I told the closing agent. “Which is marital property. And my husband forged my signature on the spousal waiver.”

The closing agent’s face went completely pale. He immediately dropped his pen.

“Is this true?” the agent asked, looking at Ray.