I slid the unsigned waiver inside and closed the drawer.

I locked it and kept the small brass key in my palm.

The waiver sat in the dark, completely blank at the bottom.

The wall clock read half past six.

I picked up my heavy leather briefcase from the hall table.

It still held the thirteen faded blue patent folders Marcus had pulled from the Zurich vault.

I drove north toward the county line.

The highway diner sat alone at a gravel crossroads.