I released the steering wheel, but the cold from the vinyl stayed in my fingers all the way through Saturday evening.

When I walked into the lobby of my apartment building at eight o’clock, Mr.

Vance was standing by the brass mailboxes.

He was wearing his gray work trousers and holding a long white envelope in his right hand.

He did not have his usual ring of master keys, and he did not smile when the glass door clicked shut behind me.

“We have a standard of quiet here, Mara,” he said, holding the paper out.