And my grandmother had not been able to walk to the end of her own driveway since August.

I knew that.

I had taken her shopping.

I had carried her bins out on a Tuesday in September.

Margaret Henderson did not take that book to the bank on the twenty-fourth of September.

Somebody else did.

And whoever did it had come home afterward and put it back wherever she kept it, and had not noticed, or had not cared, that there was now a red stamp on the last page.

Part Thirteen: Beatrice