She’d written my full name across the top of the second page.

“Why are you doing this to me after seven years?” she’d scrawled in messy cursive at the bottom of the page.

I let that page drop onto the desk and reached into the plastic box for the next envelope.

In it was a carbon copy of a bank transfer receipt for forty-one thousand dollars, taken straight from the sale of my old lake lot.

The money had gone out in two cashier’s checks made out to Vance Miller and Pete Higgins.