The soles are worn clean through on the right side.

You can see his sock.”

By four o’clock the bank statement and the electric bill were sitting in my metal box down in the lobby, but the courier with the dark leather pouch had brought something else.

He was a young man in a blue uniform, holding a heavy white packet bound in thick red rubber bands against his chest.

“Natalie Whitcomb?” he asked, checking the clipboard propped against his hip.