Betty Miller was most likely on the phone to the hospitality board right that minute, reporting my screaming fit in the parking lot.

Evelyn’s black leather purse sat on the empty chair next to me.

Its brass clasp caught the light from the fixture overhead.

I took the printout of the Tyler property deed out of my uniform pocket and smoothed the creases flat on the table.

The page showed Thomas Rountree’s tax record, proving he’d owned a house in Tyler back in 1971.

I traced his name with my index finger.