“Where are you off to at six thirty in the morning?” Grace asked.

“To see a young woman who took two hundred dollars to look at her phone for ten minutes,” I said.

The apartment building on Oak Street had peeling green paint on the stair rails and three rusty mailboxes by the door.

I stood on the second-floor landing at ten past eight until I heard the lock turn inside.

The notary’s assistant opened the door four inches, holding a half-finished mug of tea.

“I’m not at work yet,” she said, trying to push the door back shut.