“A slip of paper fell out onto the floor.”

Rory stopped loading lumber.

He turned around slowly, his eyes narrowing under the brim of his cap.

He reached into his coat pocket and started jingling his keys, a quick, nervous clink of metal on metal.

“What sort of paper?” he asked.

“A deposit slip from the salon in Sioux Falls,” I said.

“Two hundred dollars for a prom hair and makeup package, in Tasha’s name.”

Rory flung a board into the truck bed hard enough to rock the suspension.