Caroline Holloway spread margarine on a cold slice of bread and watched Grant flip through the blue ledger books spread across the kitchen table.

The kitchen window on Elmwood Avenue was open two inches to let out the damp pine smoke from the kerosene stove.

Grant turned another page of the loan documents, his fingers leaving faint smudges on the white margins.

A white official envelope with red print in the upper left corner lay beside his teacup.

When Caroline turned around to set the bread plate on the oilcloth, Grant slid the letter under his folded copy of the morning newspaper.

“Did the city approval come through for the Elmwood property?” she asked.

Grant didn’t raise his eyes from the numbers in the ledger.

“Arthur Vance wants to see the personal financial statement before noon,” he said.

“There are sixty-four dollars left in the checking account, Grant,” Caroline said.

Grant tapped the brass tip of his pen against the wooden table twice.

“We’re in this together, Caroline, but business requires a single name on the deed.”

He reached for his heavy coat on the back of the chair.

“The legal filings need to look clean to an outside investor,” Grant said.

“Clean?” Caroline asked.

“Arthur Vance doesn’t invest in family partnerships,” Grant said.

“He invests in sole proprietors with full authority.”

He stood up, tucked the newspaper under his elbow, and walked toward the small front hallway.

Caroline stepped toward the table, but the white window envelope was already gone from beside the cup.