He pushed the door open and said something to the waitress over his shoulder.

“Tomorrow at two.

She won’t be in the room.”

The door swung shut.

I walked back to my car without looking at his truck again.

I saved the photos in a folder marked Audit and wrote the date, the mileage, and the three photo times in my black leather ledger.

At nine that night I spread three binders across my kitchen counter.

Blue for bank records.