The seal was stamped crooked, the lettering doubled at one edge.

The hallway light made the deed look as thin as a leaf.

Arthur took it from my hand, folded it along the crease, and slid it into his coat pocket.

“Not here,” he said.

“We keep this dry.”

We walked out past the clerk’s window.

The clerk didn’t look up from her crossword puzzle.

By seven that evening I was standing in the motel lobby, and Brenda Prescott was there by the ice machine with a white bakery box tied with red string.