I checked the bottom corner of the screen to make sure the timestamp showed nine fifteen on the evening of November fourth.

I took five separate photographs of the written ledger, making sure every dollar figure and receipt number showed up clear and sharp against the blue lines.

I closed the yellow notebook, smoothed the front cover down with my palm, and tucked it deep inside my pillowcase.

The clock on the oven display read five forty-five when the sharp smell of sulfur reached the hallway.

Sloan was leaning her back against the open door of the Sub-Zero refrigerator, a blue pack of Virginia Slims resting on the white quartz island next to a heavy crystal salt shaker.