I restocked canned tomatoes, argued gently with a produce supplier, helped a teenage cashier balance her register, and carried heavy crates because standing still made my mind wander toward that porch in Lakewood.

Every time the front bell rang, I half expected Laura to walk through the door and ask where we kept the oats.

Ray called on Friday.

“I have enough concerns to recommend a formal report.

Can you come in?”

I reached his office twenty minutes later.

He had organized the documents in labeled folders.

The cottage was leased under the name Sarah Jenkins.