Patricia stepped out onto the front step holding Arthur’s letter by one corner, the way you’d hold something that might be damp.

“You’ll want to think about that number,” she called across the yard.

“I already have a number.

Four hundred and eighty-six thousand dollars.”

Her fingers tightened around the envelope.

She turned, went back inside, and pushed the heavy oak door shut with her shoulder.

I sat in the idling car and watched her through the glass beside the door as she carried Arthur’s letter into the kitchen and slit it open under the lamp with her thumb.

I backed out before Patricia could get to her Buick.