“Companies don’t pay for routine physicals in cash,” I said.

I smoothed the paper flat against the cold steel, staring at the cash receipt from the neurology lab tucked inside Greg’s metal toolbox.

I shut the lid of the metal toolbox and snapped the brass latch into place.

By eight thirty the next morning, Patty sat across from me in a corner booth at the Downtown Coffee Shop, pushing a blueberry muffin back and forth on her paper napkin.

“He didn’t just step down from the finance committee, Claire,” Patty said, keeping her voice low enough that the barista couldn’t hear.