She had helped pick the gym floor.
"Sit down, Millicent," Mr. Lombardi said into the microphone. "This will take four minutes."
"This is a dance."
"Then I'll be quick."
He turned his head toward the side door.
It opened with a squeak.
A custodial cart rolled into the gym, its back wheel wobbling, pushed by a short man in a gray work shirt with a gray mustache.
Raul Gutierrez.
Night custodian.
Fifty-eight years old.
My father's closest friend.
A faint smell of lemon cleaner drifted across the dance floor as he passed.
It hit me in the chest.
On top of the cart sat a thick green ledger with a rubber band around it.
Someone had written on the cover in black marker, in square letters I would have known anywhere.
THE FRIDAY BOOK.
I stopped breathing.
"Every Friday for sixteen years," Mr. Lombardi said, "at 2:40 in the afternoon, an envelope of cash was left under the cafeteria register."
