“Who are you calling?” I asked her.

“Vance Miller,” Sophie said.

“He retired from the bank three years back.

He and Dad were friends.”

At nine the next morning Vance was sitting in the corner booth at the Oakhaven Diner with a mug of black coffee.

He was sixty-seven, in a beige cardigan with wooden buttons, his rimless reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

I laid the photocopied ledgers on the Formica table between his paper napkin and his coffee mug.