I stood behind the yellow police tape across the lake house driveway with Megan’s envelope in one pocket and the deputy’s papers in the other.

The cup from Diane’s porch was still in the van’s holder, cold, when I unlocked the shop at seven on Tuesday.

I put it on the drafting table and wiped up the ring it left with my thumb.

I lined up three binders in a row.

Blue for the bank.

Red for the hospital.

Black for the deed and the court papers.

I’d bought them at the hardware store, the heavy kind with steel rings, because paper in a cardboard box was just paper.