“Madison, it’s Arthur Vance,” the voice said in my ear, slow and dry.

“I’m turning onto Oak Street now.”

“I’ll meet you out in the yard,” I said.

I hung the receiver back in its cradle and jerked a thumb toward the front hall.

“Your bus comes in ten minutes, Ethan,” I said.

“Go put your winter coat on.”

The navy station wagon crunched to a stop on the gravel drive at ten o’clock sharp, its tailpipe puffing white exhaust into the cold.

Arthur Vance opened the driver’s door, holding a thick manila envelope against the front of his heavy wool overcoat.