“Did Bob sign the request form himself?” I asked.

“The clerk logged the request under his own driver’s license number,” he said.

I paid for our coffee with the last few small bills in my purse and picked up the heavy manila envelope.

“We’ve got everything we need for Donald’s board,” Clara said.

“I want to put these papers somewhere Bob will never find them,” I said.

By five o’clock the sunroom was dark, the last of the afternoon light gone behind the bare oaks in the side yard.

I put the envelope on my writing desk and switched on the little brass desk lamp.