The paper twisted into bright orange ribbons, blackening at the edges before falling away as light ash.

The forged paper burned down to black ash on the fireplace hearth.

I put the brass poker back on its iron stand by the hearth and watched the last tiny red sparks go out against the soot.

The morning light coming in the east window fell clean across the hallway floor, showing where the heavy iron safe had gouged the oak boards two weeks before.

By eight o’clock Saturday morning I had a roll of blue painter’s tape pressed flat along the trim in Bennett’s room.