“Brandon phoned my office twice while you were in the taxi,” she said.

“What did he want to know?”

“He wanted to know if I knew where you’d put the spare garage door openers,” she said.

She took a blue folder out of her leather briefcase and laid it flat next to the toaster.

“He didn’t ask where you were staying.”

I leaned on the kitchen counter and opened the folder.

The top page carried the Mitchell Family Holdings letterhead in sharp dark print.

“If I sign this formal notice, Margaret, what will it do?”