"Mrs. Vasbinder." I stood up. "You know I can't talk to you about the investigation."
"I know. I'm not here about that. I've told Agent Mbatha everything. I've given her everything. My lawyer says I shouldn't be here at all." She swallowed. "I'm here about this." She held out the folder. "It was in the lockbox. On August twentieth. I opened it. I read it. I saw the words 'disability accommodation,' and I thought you were lying. I thought it was a trick people use. I put it in a drawer in my kitchen. It's been in the drawer the whole time."
I came down the steps and took it. Inside was my ramp application, my handwriting, the contractor's drawing, the note about my father. There was a coffee ring on the corner.
"Thank you," I said. "You should give a copy of this to Captain Yarbrough. Not to me. He's handling the notices."
"I did. This morning. He's very—" She searched for the word. "Thorough."
"He's the most boring man in Fernhill," I said. "It's a high compliment."
She almost smiled. It didn't quite make it. Then she looked past me at the porch swing, and at my father in it, and she said, "May I?"
I thought about it. I thought about it longer than she probably wanted me to. I turned around and looked at Daddy, who had turned the radio down and was watching us with the bright, curious attention he got on his good evenings.
"Daddy," I said. "This is Mrs. Vasbinder, from up the street. She'd like to say something to you."