Through the front doors I could see her car at the curb with two cardboard boxes in the back seat, already packed.

Clare Vance came down the hall with her yellow legal pad tucked under her arm and stopped close enough that Robert had to take a step back.

“Three B.

Whitfield,” she said.

“He reads every page before he takes his seat, so we hand him pages.”

She tapped the pad two times.

“The closing papers are on my desk.

One signature, and the deed is yours.”