I remembered Greg’s face. I remembered his shaking hands, his Rolex, his panic over this room. “The lake house papers.”
“No, son,” I rasped, standing up. My legs felt like lead.
“Those aren’t the papers you’re looking for. This is your indictment.”
I didn’t sleep a wink. I paced the house like a caged animal. That blue notebook felt like it was burning a hole in my pocket.
I re-read the dates, trying to match them to our lives. 1996. Greg goes to college. We sold the second car to pay his tuition. In the notebook: “Extra payment. Week of the 15th.” 2010. Greg starts his first business. Asks for a loan. We gave him everything we had in savings. In the notebook: “$5,000 above the usual.”
In the morning, as the sky turned a bruised purple over the neighborhood, I got dressed. I didn’t bother shaving. I put the notebook in my inner jacket pocket, right against my chest, where my heart was thudding a slow, heavy rhythm.
I needed to go to the bank. Morning in the suburbs is always the same. Garage doors opening, neighbors scraping frost off windshields. I joined the flow of traffic.
I walked with my cane—my knee was acting up—and I felt like everyone was looking at me. Like they knew I was the old fool who’d been lied to for forty years. The credit union opened at nine.
I was there at eight-forty. I stood at the glass doors, breathing on the cold pane. A couple of other seniors were waiting, talking about the price of eggs.
“Eleanor used to be here every week,” one of them said, a woman named Nancy from down the street. She recognized me. I flinched.
“Every week, huh?”
“Like clockwork, Tom. We used to joke she had a part-time job here. Always at the same window. Window number three, with Sarah.”
At nine sharp, the security guard unlocked the door. I was the first one in. I didn’t take a number. I went straight to the manager’s office.
A young woman with a practiced smile met me.
“I need to see the manager,” I said.
“Do you have an appointment? Mrs. Miller is quite busy.”
“Tell her it’s Thomas Miller. Eleanor Miller’s husband. It’s about her estate. It’s urgent.”
The manager, Mrs. Miller (no relation), was a woman about my age, professional and stern.
She knew Eleanor. She came out five minutes later and invited me in.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Mr. Miller. Eleanor was a very dedicated member here.”
I sat down, resting my cane on my lap.
“Mrs. Miller, I’m going to be blunt. I found some records at home. My wife was withdrawing cash. A lot of cash. Every single week. I need to know where it went.”
The manager took off her glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She looked uncomfortable.
“Mr. Miller, there are privacy laws. But since Eleanor has passed and you are the executor of the estate…” She sighed and turned to her computer. “Yes, the account is nearly empty. There’s about $42 left.”
“Where were the transfers going?” I asked, leaning forward. “What account?”
Mrs. Miller looked at me over her monitor. There was a mix of pity and hesitation in her eyes.
“There were no transfers, Mr. Miller. Eleanor never did online banking or wire transfers. She said she didn’t trust ‘invisible money’.”
“Then how? Cash?”
“She always ordered cash in advance. Large bills. Every Thursday. She’d come in, take the envelope, and leave.”
“Leave through the front door?”
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