“Your deadline was Sunday at five,” I said, standing on the top porch step.

“I decided to move up the timetable,” he called down to me.

“My client portfolio files are in the hall closet, Mark.

I need my drafting tools.”

“Everything you own has been taken care of,” he said.

He stepped back into the bedroom for three seconds and picked up a heavy brown packing box from the floor.

He carried the box to the open sill and tipped it forward without looking down.

The box hit the wet lawn near the hydrangea bushes with a loud thump, spilling wooden kitchen spoons, three plastic bowls, and a bent wire whisk across the grass.