“That Westfall payment has been going on for three years,” I said.

“Hand over the passbook tomorrow, Penelope,” Bob said, backing away toward his car.

“We’re not having another public scene like the one you just put on.”

At two that afternoon Clara rapped twice on my back kitchen door and let herself in without waiting.

She laid a manila folder on the kitchen table right next to my cooling mug of tea.

Clara leaned in, tapping her silver pen against her notepad.