Walter pulled up fifty feet back, by Mary Bennett’s mailbox, and shut off the engine.

“Stay here until I’ve cleared the walk,” Walter said.

“No,” I said, unbuckling my seat belt.

“It’s my house.”

I stepped down onto the icy pavement and took the blue carbon document out of my coat pocket.

The blue paper was worn along the folds, the dark ink of my forged signature standing out sharp and clean in the light.

I pressed the corner flat with my thumb, right on the spot where Trevor had written my name.