Daniel stood on the wooden bank steps on Main Street in his dark work suit, holding his leather clip folder.

Next to him stood an older man with short gray hair, rimless reading glasses and a dark wool coat.

I picked up the photo and held it close to the bulb over the table.

“I don’t know who that man is,” I said.

“There’s a phone number written on the back,” Sophie said, flipping the glossy paper over.

Along the bottom edge, in blue ballpoint, were seven digits and a name in Daniel’s tiny, careful handwriting: *Vance.

Call after five.*