Eli sat in the chair nearest the door. His satchel rested on his knees. His hat lay on top of it. He looked, Tessa thought from her window across the lobby, exactly as he had when he first walked in: an old man in a brown cardigan with all the time in the world.

Dale came across the lobby slowly. He had not been told what the meeting was about. He had been told only that his uncle wished to speak with him privately, and that the paperwork was nearly finished. He had perked up at that, the way a starving dog perks up at the sound of a can opener. Now he walked with a loose, hopeful swagger, his nylon jacket crackling, his smile in place.

“There he is,” Dale said, stepping into the office. “I was starting to think you’d died in there, Uncle Eli. Everything good? They giving us the money?”

“Sit down, Dale,” said Eli.

“Sure. Sure.” Dale lowered himself into the second chair and stretched out his legs. His eyes flicked to Marcus, to the silver pen, to the photograph on the wall. “So what’s the deal? Is there a limit? Because I told you, you could’ve just done a check, and—”

“I’ve been keeping a notebook,” said Eli.

Dale’s smile didn’t change, but something behind it stiffened.

“A notebook?”

“Yes.” Eli unbuckled his satchel and drew out the small black book. He set it on the corner of the desk between them, not pushing it forward, just letting it sit there, plain and square. “I’m a precise man. You know that. I’ve kept records all my life. Since last February, I have kept records of everything in my house.”

“Okay,” Dale said slowly. “Sure. Good idea. At your age—”

“Nine pages.”

Dale laughed, a high, hollow sound. “Nine pages of what?”

“Missing things.”

The silence in the glass office was so complete that Tessa, across the lobby, felt it press against her ears. She was supposed to be watching the front doors. She could not stop watching her friend’s face, if she could call him that, a man she had known for six hours.

“Uncle Eli,” said Dale, very gently, like a man speaking to a frightened child. “You know your memory isn’t what it used to be. We talked about this. You forget where you put things. Remember the glasses? You were sure I’d taken your reading glasses, and they were in the refrigerator.”

“They were in the refrigerator,” Eli agreed mildly. “I put them there on purpose. To see whether you would tell me you’d found them. You did not mention it.”

Dale’s mouth opened and closed.

“I conducted a number of experiments over the last few months,” said Eli. “I’m afraid I am not proud of them. But a man who suspects his own mind has the right to run a few tests. I left a twenty-dollar bill under the lamp in the parlor. I recorded its serial number. It was gone in three days.” He turned a page. “I left an envelope with a hundred dollars in the dining room hutch. Gone in a week. I placed the pearls in a different drawer, on a Thursday, and told no one. They were gone by Sunday.”

“Maybe you’re misremembering—”

“I do not misremember a serial number, Dale.”

A bead of sweat had formed at Dale’s hairline. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. His smile had slipped, and what lay beneath it was ugly and very young.

“I don’t know what you think I did,” he said. “But I’ve been taking care of you. I cook for you. I drive you to your appointments. I’ve been—”

“You have been stealing from me,” said Eli. His voice did not rise. It did not tremble. “Eleven transfers to your own bank account, totaling just under twelve thousand dollars. Two thousand dollars in cash from my desk. A silver service, valued at four thousand. My wife’s pearls.” He paused. “I would like you to tell me the truth, Dale. That is all. I’ve brought you here to give you the chance.”

For a long moment, Dale did not speak.

Then he did something Tessa did not expect. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and drew out a folded document.

Power of Attorney

“I wasn’t going to show you this,” said Dale. His voice had gone smooth and low, the voice of a man who had been rehearsing his last card. “I didn’t want to embarrass you. But if you’re going to start accusing me of things, I think you should see it.”

He unfolded the paper and laid it on the desk, smoothing the creases with the flat of his hand.