“He does it voluntarily, or the fraud evidence goes to the state’s attorney.

He can sign at his own dining table if he wants.”

I slid the Springfield Credit Union envelope across the desk.

I had taken it from Julian’s blue leather organizer the night before, after he fell asleep.

The envelope had a coffee ring on one corner.

Sarah opened the flap and drew out the single page.

“This is a path,” she said.

“Not a destination.”