My father had never asked me for money to cover the county bills, but the tax wires had come out of my pay automatically every six months.

I counted eleven years of wire confirmations, folded them into a canvas pouch, and whistled for Knox.

The drive down High Street to the city building took seven minutes in the noon traffic.

The ground floor of the Portsmouth Municipal Building smelled of pine wax and old city files.

Clara Potts stood behind the tall oak counter, sliding three yellow highlighters into a perfectly straight line on her blotter.

“Good afternoon, Evelyn,” she said in her dry, polite voice.