“Which one?”
“The forty one thousand two hundred.”
He looked toward the bookkeeper.
“Lake lot proceeds.”
“Where did they go?”
“The account listed on the receipt.”
“Whose account?”
Caleb reached for the folder.
I closed it before he could take it.
“I asked whose account.”
He rubbed the edge of his wedding ring with his thumb. I watched him do it, then opened the folder again.
The account number was printed beneath the transfer, but the last four digits had been crossed out in blue ink.
“Why was this changed?”
Caleb picked up the empty box.
“Ask the bookkeeper.”
The bookkeeper finally raised his head.
“I did not change it.”
“Who did?”
He looked at Caleb, then back at me.
“I was told the original file had been moved.”
“By whom?”
He lowered his eyes to the papers.
“I would rather not guess.”
I wrote 41,200 on the back of a grocery receipt from my coat pocket. Beneath it I wrote the date.
Caleb lifted the box again.
