“You have been gone long enough to forget how this office works.”
“I remember enough.”
He carried the box toward the door, but stopped before leaving.
“Brother, you should let the paperwork settle before you start making accusations.”
“I asked one question.”
“And you wrote down the answer.”
He left with the box.
I stayed beside the cabinet until the bookkeeper gathered the remaining folders into a neat stack.
“Can I see the original transfer page?”
He hesitated.
“Not without permission.”
“Whose?”
He did not answer.
At ten, I met Caroline in the old storage room at the hospital, where dust covered the tops of metal cabinets and the only window faced a brick wall.
She carried a small camera and two file folders.
“You were right about the dates,” she said.
“About what?”
“They do not line up.”
I photographed the ledger page she placed on the table.
The transfer date was printed at the top. The hospital record beside it showed a different account reference, but four digits matched the ones I had written on my grocery receipt.
