“I have administrative paperwork to finish for the school board,” he said, stepping toward the screen door.

“Cut back on household spending before you start asking me questions about bank balances.”

He let the screen door latch shut behind him and walked up the wooden staircase to his office on the second floor.

A minute later, the soft scrape of his desk drawer lock turning came through the ceiling boards above the kitchen counter.

I picked his discarded work shorts out of the laundry hamper by the back porch door to empty the pockets before starting the wash.

In the left front pocket, my fingers touched a piece of stiff thermal paper crumpled into a tight ball.