The neighbor’s dog started barking at something in the dark, three sharp barks, then nothing.

I held the yellowed letter under the kitchen ceiling light and didn’t set it down.

I had the letter folded in my inside coat pocket when the bank officer slid the printout across his desk to me.

Mr.

Vance squared a pile of signature cards into a neat block before he said anything that mattered.

“Payments to Ray Whitfield,” he said.

“Six hundred fifty a month.