“Monday morning at eight o’clock, you move into this manager’s office for good.”

I walked out to my car at three o’clock with my printed audit clearance and drove four miles east to Heather’s rented duplex on Maple Avenue.

Heather’s front porch smelled of wet leaves and cold air.

Colin, her estranged husband, was sitting on a plastic folding chair by the porch railing in his gray warehouse uniform, his name stitched in white thread over the pocket.

Heather opened the screen door holding a half-eaten sleeve of saltines, her eyes red around the rims.