She had on a bright yellow cardigan buttoned all the way up, paying no attention at all to the thick South Carolina heat pressing on the diner windows.

I slid into the vinyl seat across from her.

I kept the blue folder tucked away in my leather bag on the floor.

“You look so worn out, Sarah,” Martha said.

“They must be working you half to death before your promotion.”

“The base is fine,” I said.

“I need to ask you something about Dad and the house.”

Martha picked up her plastic menu.