The prosecutor’s badge sat in a felt sleeve on top, still shiny, still carrying the number they’d issued me in Colorado.

Beneath it were the case files I had held on to, and a manila folder that slid out from between them with my name on the tab in handwriting I didn’t recognize.

Ross, S.

Not Palmer.

I put the folder on the windowsill.

There was no table yet, and I was worn out, and I told myself I’d look at it in the morning.

Enzo came back up with a paper bag and two paper cups.