Eight words.
That’s all it took. After twelve years of silence and a hundred and forty-one unopened letters.
Tell them where my money went, Margaret. Now.
I think about those words sometimes when I’m at work, tracing some stranger’s money through some company’s books, looking for the place where somebody hid something. I think about the attic and the space heater and the cake with no name on it.
And then I keep going.
Because numbers don’t lie. People lie.
And sometimes, if you’re lucky, somebody you love walks halfway down an aisle, stops, and makes them tell the truth.
