“He gave me a copy of the signature card,” I said.

“And the closing receipt.”

I went upstairs to the little bedroom tucked under the eaves and shut the door behind me.

I laid the white bank receipt on the wooden dresser next to Clara’s porcelain lamp.

The single line of computer type near the bottom stood out sharply against the empty white paper.

Balance remaining: forty-seven dollars and twelve cents.

At seven the next morning I laid the slip on Clara’s kitchen table and pressed the paper flat against the wood.