I undid the brass clasp on the front and unzipped the narrow divider pocket.

I felt past a heavy plastic pen case, a half-empty pack of mints, and a binder of quarterly budget reports.

My fingers brushed against a folded sheet of thick white paper tucked between two manila file folders.

I pulled it out, expecting a parking stub from the hospital garage or a gas receipt from the station on Main Street.

It was a formal invoice from Premier Suburban Maid Services, printed on heavy cream paper and dated exactly fourteen days ago.

I unfolded the sheet under the glare of the waiting room lights.