“Not without primary written authorization,” the agent said.

“As of two fifteen today, her card is completely dead in our network.”

“Thanks,” David said, and he hung up with one tap of his thumb.

He slid the phone back into his shirt pocket, got up from the armchair and looked down at me without another word.

At four o’clock I drove my old Buick across town to my sister Sarah’s third-floor apartment on Maple Street.

Sarah, who was thirty, opened her door holding a plastic laundry basket full of folded towels.