“That’s my business, Clara,” he said.

“Not yours.”

I looked down at the lines of print near the bottom margin.

The paper was crisp, but one corner had a slight curl, as if it had been sitting in a dark briefcase for a very long time.

“I’m going to take this to the dining table,” I said.

“The light’s better under the hanging lamp.”

Dean got up fast, his knee bumping the edge of the coffee table.

“There’s nothing on page three that isn’t on page one.”