“Meter has twenty minutes left,” he said, setting my cup on the oak table.

I didn’t touch the coffee.

I turned the open ledger toward his side of the table and tapped the blue notary stamp with my fingernail.

“Look at line four,” I said.

Nate bent down, his eyes scanning the narrow handwritten legal text.

He stared at the signature line for a long time, his chin perfectly still above his coat collar.

“That’s my handwriting,” he said.