Emily pulled the laptop toward her.
She went through the pages one at a time, her lips moving, her finger tracing the margins.
Page one.
Page two.
Page three.
“Michael,” she said.
“Look at the bottom corner.”
I leaned over.
There was nothing there.
No blue ink, no tiny circled E.
Pages one through five were clean.
Page six had a signature, a long drunken slant, as if a hand had been pushed across the paper.
“I have initialed every page I’ve ever signed since I was nineteen,” Emily said.
“You used to tease me for it.”
“I know,” I said.
For the first time that night, the corner of her mouth moved.
It was not a smile, but it was a door.
At midnight, I called my mother.
She picked up on the first ring.
“Mom,” I said. “Ask Ashley who handed it to you.”
The line was quiet for so long I thought we had been cut off.
