The radiator under the window gave a sudden, loud hiss, venting steam into the damp room.
“Did she say why she needed them?” I asked.
“She didn’t have to,” Mr. Vance said, closing the drawer with a dull thud. “She paid the ten-dollar search fee in cash and left. I don’t ask questions when the paperwork is in order.”
“Thank you,” I said.
I walked out of the office and down the wide marble stairs, my rubber-soled shoes silent against the stone.
By one o’clock, the rain had cleared, leaving the Indiana air thick with the scent of wet earth and early spring growth.
I took my green gardening shears from the back porch and walked out to the lilac bushes that grew along the side fence. The branches were heavy with swollen purple buds, some of them already beginning to show their color through the gray wood.
I began to trim the dead growth from the center of the bushes, working with the slow, deliberate movements that kept my mind from wandering.
