I put the notary sheet into my briefcase, touched the brass clasp, and drove north up Route 7 with all the windows rolled down.

Wyatt was already at a table, his jacket folded over the chair next to him.

He ordered a bottle of Barolo before I’d even unfolded my napkin.

“You look tired, Samantha,” he said.

“I got two hours of sleep,” I said.

“The printer and I don’t get along.”

He smiled at that, and for a moment he looked like the man who used to bring me coffee at the kitchen table.

Then he folded his hands together and said, “I want to keep this simple.”