The manila envelope yields with a dry, fibrous snap. Inside, the new claims file for the Didsbury fatal fire sits beneath a dusting of grit. Monday morning at the Spinningfields floor always begins with this specific scent: stale coffee, industrial floor wax, and the cold ozone of the printers. Bronwen rests her hand on the cardstock, her thin silver wedding band tapping against the edge of the desk.
She pulls the first sheet clear. It is a standard fire and large-loss schedule, crisp and fresh from the broker’s office. Her eyes scan the policyholder’s name, looking for the usual corporate entity or landlord’s trust. Instead, she finds her own name, Bronwen Tindall, printed in sharp, unforgiving Calibri. The address listed is a house on Torkington Road she has never entered. The premium was paid in March, during the fortnight she was supposedly drinking Vinho Verde in Lisbon with Owen.
This is a clerical error. The thought is a flicker of logic against a rising tide of cold. She tilts the folder, intending to check the secondary details. From the manila envelope, the second schedule page slides out, bearing her own looped signature in black ink.
