Inside was a standard Indiana power of attorney form, pristine and white. It had not been folded, but the lower right corner was slightly creased, as if someone had held it tight with a thumb.
A small pink slip of paper was clipped to the back of the folder. It was a receipt from the Marion County recorder’s office for a fifty-dollar filing fee, dated three weeks ago.
The signature line on the power of attorney form was blank.
I carried the folder back to the kitchen and set it on the laminate counter. Arthur had followed me, his blanket still draped over his shoulders like a shawl. He sat on the tall stool, his eyes following my movements with quiet attention.
“Dad,” I said, leaning against the counter. “Did Robert ask you to sign any documents when he came over last week?”
“No,” Arthur said. He rubbed his wrist again, his eyes dropping to the pattern on the counter. “Only the library application. For the historical biography section.”
