Wade set the box of commentaries in the trunk and wiped a smear of dust off his silver-framed glasses.

“He wants to be sure you’re disarmed before tomorrow’s public meeting at two,” Wade said, settling his frames with one exact motion.

“He can change the locks on that door, but he can’t change the truth on this paper,” I said, touching the left pocket of my coat, where Kade’s signed 1979 confession lay folded in my logbook.

Arthur turned his back on us, stepped inside, and pulled the front door closed behind him.

The lock clicked hard in its frame.