In the September, the second time, I noticed something about that envelope that I had never noticed in six years, because I had never held it for longer than about four seconds.
It has been opened.
Obviously it has — Saul has had it out a dozen times and I know that.
That is not what I mean.
It has been resealed.
Not with the original flap, which went years ago. Somebody has put a strip of tape across it. And then another one, further along, where the first one had stopped holding.
Two strips, different tapes, years apart.
He opened it, and looked at her, and then closed it up again so that it would be shut when I found it.
Every single time. For six years. In a room with the door open, listening for a car.
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