Just a bank number had been typed there instead, nine digits and nothing more.

I went through her checkbook one page at a time.

Every check had a name on it, the church, the electric company, the woman who cut her hair, and there was nothing for September and nothing for Tyler.

I held the receipt up to the lamp, as if the paper might tell me more if it got closer to the light.

The date at the bottom was stamped on, not typed, in the same blue ink as the account number.