Boxes sealed with thick brown tape were stacked three high along the wall, filling nearly all the floor between the closet and the washstand.

I sat on the edge of the narrow twin bed with my winter coat still zipped to my chin.

I took the yellowed 1984 abstract out of my pocket and spread it across my lap, feeling its brittle edges under my thumb.

Downstairs, the kitchen clock struck eight, the metallic chime humming through the floorboards under my boots.

Before the sun came up over the maples, I laid forty white index cards out across Grace’s kitchen table.

On every card I’d written a time, a place and a signature from the paper trail I’d spent seven weeks piecing together.