At eight the following morning I laid the black three-ring binder on Clare Vance’s conference table and opened the rings.

She had poured one cup of coffee, black, with a peppermint on a saucer beside it.

“Eleven years,” I said.

“Every set of orders, every leave slip, every pharmacy receipt from Grandma’s kitchen.”

Clare turned to the first tab.

“You put this together before you hired me?”

“I started it the night of the funeral.

I finished it up at the motel.”