Arthur sat on the arm of the sofa, both palms on his knees, watching the way he used to watch the loading dock at the end of a shift.

“The blue folder goes with me,” Julian said.

“That folder is my daughter’s evidence,” Arthur said.

“You’ll leave it on the hall table.”

Julian set it down.

Then he stood there with his coat over his arm and his keys in his hand.

“There’s eleven thousand four hundred dollars still in Springfield,” he said.

“It’s clean.