The autumn air was getting cool, and the leaves along the sidewalk were fading to a dry pale yellow.

By five o’clock Grace was sitting on her front porch swing, smoothing her linen apron over her lap while I sat on her top wooden step with a mug of black tea.

“Frank’s black pickup was in your driveway at midnight Tuesday,” Grace said.

I twisted around on the step.

“Tuesday night?”

“He was carrying heavy cardboard file boxes out your side door and loading them into the bed of his truck,” Grace said.

“He had a long flashlight wrapped up in a towel so the beam wouldn’t hit my bedroom window.”