“She doesn’t know what’s in the bags, Sloan,” Mark said, his voice dropping low.

I reached the coat tree in the dark entryway and lifted my heavy wool sweater off the peg.

As I pulled it toward me, my knee bumped the heavy tailored coat Mark had hung up ten minutes earlier.

A stiff white slip of paper fell out of the side pocket of the coat and fluttered down onto the rug.

I bent down slowly and picked it up before anyone could hear.

It was a register receipt from a jeweler at the Easton Town Center mall, dated seven o’clock that very evening.