Seven forty-two was before Martha’s church van left Oak Ridge.

Outside the bank, Rachel held the glass door open with two fingers.

“First Martha’s account,” she said.

“Now somebody wants your clinic records.”

“Brandon doesn’t do one thing at a time,” I said.

Rachel didn’t answer.

She walked to her car and sat behind the wheel without starting it.

At eleven fifteen David pulled into the diner parking lot and parked beside Rachel’s empty space.