Vanessa’s signature ran across the bottom line in thin blue ballpoint.

I flipped the receipt over in my hand, searching for a written note, a phone number, or a key code on the back.

The back was blank apart from the printed timestamp showing a checkout at four fifteen in the afternoon.

Behind me, heavy work boots came thudding down the wooden basement stairs.

“Dad, want me to bring down the rest of the dark clothes?” Mark asked, stopping in the utility room doorway with both hands jammed deep in his back pockets.

“No, Mark, I’ve got enough for this load,” I said, keeping my back to him as I stood facing the washing machine.