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We went to the notary office downtown — the same one where my husband had once signed our mortgage. The clerk raised his eyebrows when I told him I wanted to transfer ownership.
“For how much?” he asked.
He looked at me, puzzled. “Ma’am, your house is worth far more than that.”
“I know,” I said. “But this is what I need to do.”
When I looked up from signing the papers, Harold Brooks was standing in the corner of the office, holding a worn briefcase. He nodded once and handed the dollar to the clerk.
“Thank you,” he said simply. “You did the right thing.”
That was the last time I ever saw him.
The Fire on Maple Lane
Two days later, while unpacking boxes in our small rented apartment, I turned on the radio.
