“Ask my mother for a disbursement slip,” Julian said, turning toward his own car three spaces away.

By half past five, the kitchen in the Vance colonial smelled of boiled starch and damp linen towels.

I stood at the deep sink peeling yellow potatoes into a brass colander while a sharp tightness pulled across my lower back.

Eleanor Vance came in from the formal parlor holding two heavy crystal water goblets.

She set them on the granite island and started drying them with a white linen dish towel.

“Julian tells me you spent two hours downtown near the courthouse this morning,” Eleanor said.