I picked up my fork and cut a small bite of steak.

It was cooked just right, pink in the middle, the way I used to like it back when I ran long-haul loads out of Memphis.

“Where’d you find this wine?” I asked.

“Down in the cellar,” Tiffany said.

“In the little rack by the back wall.”

I chewed slowly and kept my eyes on my plate.

I’d locked that back room in April and kept the brass key in my desk drawer upstairs.

We finished dinner without talking business again.