Arthur Vance had recorded a formal notice of corporate default on a four-hundred-thousand-dollar commercial line of credit forty-eight hours before Greg handed me the manila envelope at our kitchen table.

I printed the two-page filing summary, folded the paper twice, and tucked it into my coat pocket.

At four o’clock, I parked my station wagon across the street from the dry cleaner on Oak Ridge Drive.

Greg’s rented second-floor apartment sat above the dry cleaner’s steam vents, its small square window dark behind grey aluminum blinds.

At four twenty, the heavy wooden door beside the dry cleaner’s drop box swung open.

Greg stepped onto the pavement carrying a thin blue plastic trash bag.