Brittle Nails and a Disputed Greenhouse in Autumn

on the document. “Robert wouldn’t lie to me.”

“Just give me until Friday,” I said.

He sat in silence for a long moment, the only sound the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall. Finally, he folded the document in half and slid it into his breast pocket. “Friday morning, Martha. Not a minute later.”

The air in Arthur Vance’s continue reading …