She put the paper bags down on the cold pavement, unlocked the trunk and lifted them in with practiced, efficient motions.

A brass key hung from her key chain on a bright blue plastic coil, exactly the same shape as the post office key tucked inside my right shoe.

“Should we get out and go talk to her?” Sarah asked.

“Not just yet,” I said.

I took a stubby pencil out of my purse and copied her license plate onto the back of an old grocery receipt.

Wisconsin plate, five twenty-seven, Victor, Sam, X-ray.