“I told him the clerk in Westfall keeps excellent records,” Ruth said.

She put her empty cup in the sink and picked her handbag up off the counter.

“The prosecutor needs the signed papers dropped off at the courthouse by five,” Ruth said.

“I’ll take care of the papers before the deadline,” I said.

By seven thirty p.m. the kitchen had gone quiet, and Ruth’s sedan had pulled away down the street.

I sat at the wooden desk in the living room under the warm glow of the tall floor lamp.