The numbers were account numbers.

The first ran nine digits with a routing code next to it.

The second matched a bank I had once seen on a corporate letter, in a file Wyatt had left lying on the kitchen counter.

I turned the slip over.

On the back, in pencil, somebody had written “G.P. private.”

The radiator knocked again.

I laid the memo next to the notary printout and pressed it flat with my thumb.

I wrote a single line on my yellow pad: Call Nicole at six.