They need a signature by Friday.”

“Friday.” I pushed it out of my mind, which was easy to do that week.

He left the putty knife on the desk, and I sat down under the lamp with the ledger.

The last page wasn’t columns.

One line, in the same square handwriting, dated the twenty-second of October.

Six days after that, he was gone.

I ran my finger along the entry.

The ink sat raised where the pen had pressed down.