He picked up a small plastic bottle of cinnamon coffee creamer from his blotter and set it beside his cold ceramic mug.

“You need to keep a copy of the closing statement,” he said.

He slid the top page across the desk to me.

I wiped my fingers on my jeans again before taking the paper by the corner.

“I’ll put it in my truck,” I said.

“Don’t leave thirty-nine-million-dollar closing papers in an unlocked vehicle, Fay,” Mr.

Gable said.

“The truck locks fine,” I said.

“Your truck has two hundred and four thousand miles on it,” he said.

“The frame on the driver’s side is mostly rust.”

“It starts every time I turn the key,” I said.

“The land developer gave you three weeks to clear your office out of the back barn,” he said.

“The demolition crew arrives on the twenty-first.

Don’t miss that deadline.”