Samuel Reed walked down the aisle carrying a thick manila envelope sealed along the back with red bank tape.

He sat down three rows back on the left side and laid the certified envelope flat on his lap.

He took off his wire-frame glasses, polished the lenses with a small white cloth, and put them back on without looking at Julian.

I glanced over my shoulder at Samuel, thinking of the paper stub in my purse.

The valet parking ticket from November fourth had placed my Buick four miles from the bank when eighty-five thousand dollars was stolen from Leo’s trust.

Without that tiny piece of printed cardboard, Samuel would never have pulled the server logs from the security camera vault.