Bring the briefcase.”

I slid the real trust document into the secure briefcase.

The brass lock caught with a sound like a little door closing.

Victoria had the radio playing low in the Greenwich kitchen, a station that played horns and nothing else.

The pie sat on the windowsill, steam still rising through the slits in the crust.

She hadn’t baked since I was fifteen, and she knew that I knew it.

“Apple,” she said.