“Maybe I am,” I said.

“I’m heading home now.”

“Good,” she said.

“I’ve made iced tea for the patio.”

I drove back to the house slowly, keeping the needle right at forty.

When I stepped out onto the back patio, Tiffany was sitting in a wrought-iron chair by the pool in dark sunglasses and a wide-brimmed white hat.

A glass of tea sat on the little glass table by her elbow.

Next to the glass was her leather purse, unzipped, with a folded stack of white papers poking out of the side pocket.