I picked up Vanessa’s heavy green winter coat, which was hanging over the back of a wooden chair by the dryer.

Before I tossed it in the washer drum, I felt in the deep front pockets for loose screws, nails, or crayons.

My fingers grazed a small piece of stiff paper jammed into the bottom seam of the right-hand pocket.

I pulled it out under the harsh glare of the single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling beam.

It was a crumpled receipt on heavy white paper from the Oakridge Plaza Hotel on State Street, stamped with Tuesday’s date.

The printed line at the top showed seventy-five dollars for a single-afternoon room rate and twenty-two dollars in room service.