"He does not live by himself," Solange said. "I live there with him. I take care of him."
"You take care of him."
"Yes."
"At twelve-thirty in the morning. Walking up Ridge Road."
"Tonight is Sunday," she said. "Sunday is my day off. I was in Brooklyn at my sister's. I came back on the train. The car that picks me up every Sunday did not come." She heard her own voice, very level, very precise, every consonant in place, the voice she had built over thirty-three years in this country for exactly this kind of conversation: at counters, at windows, on the telephone with insurance companies, in emergency rooms at three in the morning explaining to a resident who was younger than her own nephew that the man in the bed was not confused, he was in pain, there was a difference. It was a voice with no edges. She hated it a little. "I called the car service. It is closed after midnight. My phone is almost dead. So I am walking."
"Uh-huh." He shone the flashlight at the box. "What's in the box?"
"A watch," she said. "It belongs to the man I take care of. It was being repaired. I picked it up today in the city."
He was quiet again. She watched him take that in, and she watched something change in his face, something tighten at the corners of the eyes, and she did not know why. "Do you have identification on you, ma'am?"
"Yes."
"Can I see it?"