“I’ll be there at eight sharp.”

I took a cab back to Willow Creek Lane with the paint cans, arriving just as Mr.

Vance pulled up to the curb in his black sedan.

By five o’clock, the late sun had turned the bare oak floors of the kitchen a warm amber.

Arthur Vance sat on a wooden crate by the sink with his leather briefcase balanced across his knees.

He took out two thick legal folders tied with red string and laid them flat on the kitchen counter.