I did.
I remembered a hosp*tal cafeteria six weeks after the fun*ral, a cold cup of coffee, and a stack of pages I had signed with a shaking hand because Jean had said, gently, “Just sign here, honey. It’s for Molly.”
Life insurance and Karen’s father’s gift.
Four hundred twelve thousand dollars, for her education, with Jean and me as co-trustees.
I had never touched a dime of it.
I had not looked at a statement in six years.
“On September thirtieth,” Jean said, “someone submitted a distribution request for twenty-four thousand five hundred dollars. For ‘educational enrichment.’ Payable to Brightpath Learning Services, LLC.”
She slid the page across the table.
Two signatures at the bottom.
Jean M. Calloway.
Scott R. Hale.
“I never signed that,” Jean said.
I stared at the second name.
It was written in careful, rounded cursive, with a full middle initial.
No S. Hale.
No two slashes underneath.
I had signed my name about a hundred thousand times, and never once like that.
“That isn’t mine,” I said.
“You asked me to handle it,” Tara said quickly. “You were on that big job in Racine, and you said, just take care of the paperwork—”
“I never said that.”
“You did. You don’t remember because you never listen.”
She looked at Jean, and her eyes began to fill, a smooth, practiced shine.
“This is what she wants. She wants Molly. She wants you to believe I’m some kind of cr*minal so she can take your daughter back.”
“Where would a girl like her get three hundred dollars?” Jean said softly. “That’s what you asked, Tara. I’d like you to ask a better question.”
“What question?”
“Where did the twelve hundred go?”
Tara’s mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
“Dad?”
A small voice came from the top of the stairs.
Cole stood there in his soccer socks, with one hand on the banister and his face wet.
“Mom told me not to say anything,” he whispered. “But it wasn’t Molly.”
His eyes went to the purse on the counter.
“The white envelope is still in there.”
Chapter 3: The White Envelope
Tara moved first.
She lunged for the purse, and I got there a half second sooner.
Her fingers raked my forearm, three bright lines, and then Jean’s hand came down flat on the counter between us.
“Tara,” Jean said. “Don’t.”
It was not loud.
Tara stopped.
I opened the purse.
Inside, under a lipstick and a set of keys, lay a plain white envelope.
It was empty.
Folded behind it was a payment receipt, still warm from the car’s dashboard.
