The parlor was dark; no one was here. Cash felt through his jacket pocket for the solid form of the envelope, with its crisp corners — maybe he should just leave it here. But there were footsteps on the stairs, and he had too much faith in Ford to think it would be anyone else.

”I have something for you,” Cash said — his volume matched Ford’s, more because it felt inappropriate to raise his voice above Ford’s volume in Ford’s house than out of any real social awareness.