I sat in the passenger seat and held my purse tightly across my lap.

At ten to two, I stepped off a city bus on Central Avenue and climbed the three brick steps to Arthur Vance’s law office.

The waiting room smelled of floor wax and old leather-bound books.

Mr.

Vance, who was sixty-four, came to the doorway himself and motioned for me to sit across from his broad mahogany desk.

He sat, straightened his silver wire glasses, and unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen three turns before he spoke.

“The state lottery office confirmed the quick pick numbers on your Shea Boulevard ticket forty minutes ago, Mrs.