She picked the certified bank statements up off the desk, tapped their bottom edges twice to line up the margins, and put them into an official green military case folder.

By five thirty that afternoon, the back patio at 412 Maple Street smelled of charcoal lighter fluid and burnt pork chops.

Vance sprawled in Grandfather Arthur’s old aluminum lawn chair, dragging his plastic fork across a greasy paper plate.

Evelyn handed me a flimsy paper plate with one dry chop and a spoonful of store-bought potato salad.

“We put your canvas duffel down in the basement corner, sweetie,” Evelyn said, her fingers fluttering up to fix the double strand of pearls at her throat.

“Chloe needed the hall closet for her winter coats.”