He never once understood what he had actually signed — that the roof over his head was not his, that his right to stand under it ran entirely through me, and that a signature is a thing that can be read to you, later, in a very quiet room.

Chapter 7 — Darcy’s Office

By midnight I was sitting across a conference table from my attorney.

Darcy Beckwith and I had known each other a long time, since before Camden, and she had watched the seven years with the particular patience of a friend who has decided not to say the thing until she is asked.

On the table between us I laid out everything: years of bank records, the trail of the forty thousand dollars, the statements for the jewelry and the hotel, a careful written account of that morning with two photographs of my face — and the slim blue folder.

I had not told Darcy much, over the years.