Chapter 23: The Invoice

On Sunday morning at seven, I delivered a final invoice to Silvan Waverley's front door.

It ran three pages and it was stapled.

Gerald took it from my hand with great care and carried it into the house.

Truffle, who had come with me, followed him in to supervise.

Silvan came down the hall in a gray t-shirt with the pages held up to the light.

"You wrote me a bill."

"It's the final one."

"It has a table of contents."

"It has everything we've ever charged each other since the lawn."

He read the first page standing in his doorway.

The vet, the fence, the statement, the pastry and the dinner check were all on it.

So were Gerald's ear examination and the twenty-three pastries.

Every line was crossed out and initialed, one by one, in my handwriting.

"Balance due," he read aloud. "Zero dollars and zero cents."

"We're even."

"We're so even."

"Turn the page," I said.

He turned it.

Under the last line, in capital letters, I had typed: ITEM: ONE LACEY WHITFIELD. PRICE: $412.60. TAX INCLUDED.

He read it twice. Then he looked up, and he was not smiling.

"I'm not selling you a pastry," he said. "I'm not going to buy you."

"I'm not asking you to buy me. I'm telling you what I cost."

"Lacey."

"You priced me at ten million dollars," I said. "I'm pricing me."

"Four hundred and twelve dollars and sixty cents."

"It's what the vet charged for the afternoon you walked into my life."

My voice shook a little, which I hated.

"I turned down ten million because it was the wrong number. This is the right one."

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