Chapter 4 : Dale's signature on the deed was not pretty. It slanted up to the right, the way signatures do when you're signing on the hood of a car or a counter you're not leaning on, and the "D" had a habit of losing its loop at the end. His "Brandt

The stamp impression was a square purple-blue box with his name, his commission number, and the words "Notary Public — State at Large — Commission Expires 03/14/2022."

The date line read 4/12/2016.

The deed described the property as "Lot 22-C, Alder Creek Subdivision, as recorded in Plat Book 41, Page 113, Public Records of the County, together with all appurtenances, including the entire common parcel on which the community pool, clubhouse apron, and adjoining walkway are situate, reserving to grantor a life estate in unit 14 of said subdivision for the remainder of grantor's natural life."

That last clause — the life estate — was the one that had taken Ramona four readings to understand. Her mother had not given her the parcel at all in 2016. Her mother had given her the *remainder*. The life estate meant her mother owned the parcel until she died, and Ramona owned it after. The whole thing had been structured so her mother could live in unit 14 until the end without triggering anything, and then Ramona would hold the parcel, and the HOA would have to ask *her* permission to use the pool, and *she* could decide whether to give it.

Her mother had rented the pool back to the HOA — informally, of course, because everything her mother did was informal — for a dollar a year. That rental agreement was in Ramona's tote too, on a single sheet of notebook paper with both signatures at the bottom. It was not notarized, because it didn't need to be. It was just an agreement.

When Ramona unfolded the deed on her lap in the clubhouse meeting room, the first person to move was Sonya. She leaned over the table, glasses pushed up on her forehead, and read the notary block out loud, slowly, in her dental hygienist's voice, the way she'd read a chart to a patient.

"Dale Brandt. Commission number 10-903-114. Expires March 14, 2022."

She sat back.

Dale's face had gone the color of skim milk.

"Mr. Brandt," Arthur Penn said, "is there a copy of your notary log in the clubhouse?"

There was a pause that lasted about four seconds. Ramona counted it.

"Yes," Dale said.

"Would you retrieve it, please."

Dale did not move.

"Mr. Brandt."

"It's in the safe."

"Then please retrieve it."

Dale stood up. He walked out of the meeting room and down the hall to the closet where the clubhouse safe was kept — a small fire safe, bolted to the floor, combination lock, two drawers. Ramona could hear him dialing the combination through the wall, which was thinner than it should have been.

He came back with a black binder, the kind with the metal corner protectors, and set it on the folding table. It was smaller than the fine ledger. It was about an inch thick. On the spine was a white label that read "NOTARY 2015–2022."

"Open it," Penn said.

Dale opened it.

The log had columns: date, name, document type, fee. Ramona's mother's entry was on the ninth page. 4/12/2016. "Barbara Vega." Document: "Quitclaim Deed."

Dale's handwriting on the log entry looked exactly like his handwriting on the fine ledger. Same slanted "D." Same missing "t."

"That is your handwriting," Penn said.