At the family dining room table, Lorraine had already carved the roast chicken. She set a slice on my plate, then reached across to straighten the serving fork I had left crooked beside it.
“Eat while it’s warm,” she said. “You’ve been spending too much time at that office.”
“I asked Caleb about the lake lot.”
Her knife stopped against the cutting board.
“And what did he tell you?”
“That the money went where it belonged.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“Then you won’t mind showing me the original receipt.”
Lorraine placed the knife down and wiped her fingers on a folded napkin. Caleb came in carrying a thin folder, his navy jacket draped over one arm.
“Here,” he said, sitting opposite me. “Since we’re all determined to make an ordinary sale into a family emergency.”
He slid a signed receipt across the table. The paper carried the date of the lake lot sale, the amount of $41,200, and a signature that looked like Caleb’s.
I checked the date twice.
