He was examining his clasp as if he had never seen one before.

“Whose foundation is it,” I said.

“Mr.

Brennan can walk you through that,” Diane said, and stood up, and the meeting was over.

At twenty past three, Liam’s conference table held the box, the notebooks, and a will in a blue folder with a coffee ring on it.

He read it straight through, as dry as a seed catalog.

The house in Clintonville.

The truck.