My own phone buzzed in the cup holder.

Barbara Hayes, one line.

I read it at the light on Highway 20 and again in the driveway.

Ten o’clock Monday.

I want to show you a signature.

Julian stirred, said something about the sprinklers, and settled again with his cheek against the glass.

I didn’t wake him.

Barbara pulled a second folder from her bottom drawer and set it on the blotter between us.