Right next to it was a seven and a hyphen.

Mother hadn’t lost the address when the Rountrees moved away.

She had cut them out so that nobody could ever read the house number.

I laid the book back down flat on the oilcloth.

My fingers were cold, but my mind felt clear for the first time since Tuesday night.

I ran my thumb along the ragged paper edges in the address book where the Rountree page had been.

At nine the next morning I sat in the low leather armchair across from Arthur Pendelton in his corner office.