Clare Vance, probate attorney, was already standing in the hallway with a legal pad resting against her hip.

“You’re Hayward?”

I held up the envelope.

“Bring it in.

I cleared my morning.” A fountain pen was clipped to her jacket, and she tapped it once against her palm.

“Two hours.

No phone calls.”

Her office looked out over Main Street, and the courthouse clock sat in the upper corner of her window as if she had arranged it there on purpose.