After we hung up, I sat at my desk and opened the blue folder.
Receipts.
Bank statements.
Furniture invoices.
Moving documents.
But nothing concerning the eighty-five thousand dollars.
I remembered the bank transfer.
I remembered Daniel sitting across from me at the old apartment.
I remembered Arthur’s accountant, a man named Peter Cohen, telling me not to mix family and money without putting things in writing.
Had I listened?
At seventy-three, there is a particular kind of panic that comes when you cannot immediately find a document you remember existing.
You question the paper.
Then you question the drawer.
Then, eventually, you question yourself.
I spent three hours searching.
Nothing.
Finally, I called Peter.
He had retired two years earlier, but I still had his number.
“Maggie Sullivan,” he said when he answered. “Well, there’s a voice I haven’t heard lately.”
