His office was squeezed between an empty grocery store and a discount tire shop.

The glass front door had his name in gold foil letters, peeling up at the corners.

Inside, the air smelled of stale coffee and old paper.

Vance sat behind a metal desk covered in leaning stacks of brown manila folders.

I set the printed bank statement and the photo of the post office box key on his green blotter.

My right hand rose and pressed flat on my breastbone.

The bone felt stiff.