Two hundred of them, boxed.” I stopped there.

The next part of the sentence wasn’t ready yet, so I let it sit on the counter between us.

Thomas pushed a brass key across the marble.

“Seven ten is yours from this moment, Miss Whitmore.”

Ryan came through the lobby doors at two thirty-six in gray sweatpants and a T-shirt with his bank’s logo on it, his hair flat on one side.

Ryan, my brother, sat down and folded his hands and didn’t touch the ginger ale.