Vanessa didn’t notice.

She pushed through the revolving door and joined her mother out on the concrete walkway.

I stepped forward and stopped in the middle of the lobby.

I bent and picked up the thick paper.

It was a formal booking agreement from the Belle Meade estate’s management office.

The top corner had a printed timestamp and a bold black signature.

Vanessa had signed it on March fourteenth.

Today was April fifth.