Two documents from two separate offices, and both of them carrying a name I hadn’t used since the wedding.

I opened my brown leather briefcase on the table.

I slipped the Delaware certificate into the inside pocket, behind the yellow notepad.

The brass clasp clicked closed.

Nicole chose the diner on Route 7 because of its booths.

They were deep enough to lay a bank statement flat without the waitress bending over to read it.

She was two cups of coffee in when I slid the Delaware certificate across the Formica.

“Sole managing owner,” she read.