For three weeks I’d let Tiffany believe she was the one moving the pieces on the board.

At ten o’clock Friday morning, the game was going to be over.

I sat by myself in the quiet car under the streetlights, gripping the Buick’s steering wheel, my face calm and set.

At four minutes to twelve the elevator doors opened on the ninth floor.

Dale stepped out first, his work boots squeaking on the beige tile.

Arthur was right behind him, hugging a black vinyl folder to his chest with both hands.

The receptionist got up behind her glass counter before we were halfway across the carpet.