“You… have… no… record… of… any… payment… to… me,” he said.

“Paul kept your handwritten receipt in his tax folder,” I said.

It was a complete bluff, but his hand dropped from his chin, and he looked toward the glass doors.

“Ten o’clock,” I said.

“Don’t be late.” I walked out into the cold drizzle without looking back.

By five o’clock, the streetlights along Rebecca’s road were glowing yellow in the damp dusk.

I parked the Buick three houses down from her brick duplex, under the bare branches of a maple.