I put the seating plan in my pocket beside it.

My name was not on the plan at all.

By nine o’clock on Sunday morning, the Main Street Diner was already filled with the smell of fried ham and old coffee.

David Vance sat in the corner booth near the kitchen doors, adjusting his gold cufflinks before I reached the table.

He did not offer a polite greeting or ask how long I had been in town.

He simply slid a thick manila folder across the Formica tabletop.