I walked out the front door before the commercial break was over and drove straight to the all-night diner next to the dry cleaners on Route 100.

Brenda was sitting in the corner booth with a manila folder laid flat between her coffee cup and saucer.

She didn’t look up when the bell over the door jingled, but she nudged the folder two inches across the Formica the moment I slid onto the vinyl seat across from her.

“If anybody at corporate asks, I never pulled this,” Brenda said, her voice sinking into the quiet tone she saved for bad news.

I opened the top flap.