“I know where Maple Street is,” he said, turning away to snatch a handful of green inventory tags off the top shelf.

“I’ve run this store for twelve years without anybody checking up on my counter receipts.”

“I wasn’t checking up on your receipts,” I said.

“I just noticed the name of the town typed on the top line.”

He jangled the brass key ring between his thumbs, pressing the little brass keys into his palms until his knuckles went white.

“Uncle John’s place takes a lot of work, Penelope.

If you can’t trust where I spend my evenings, then we’ve got bigger things to talk about.”