That was worse than the messages.

“My office.”

I glanced at the glass room again, at the empty chairs and the papers spread across the table in a fan like a losing hand of cards.

The Whitcombe paperwork sat in the middle of it, and I could see the corner of our deck, the orange tab with the account number on it.

“Gavin, let me tell you what happened this morning.”

“The Whitcombe people came in at eight forty-five.” He turned and walked toward his office.