We drove three blocks south through the deepening dark to Wade’s little rented apartment behind the grain elevator.

The kitchen smelled of peppermint tea and damp steam from the radiator.

I sat at the yellow Formica table while Wade spread bank statements, tax returns, and Margaret’s estate folders under the bulb hanging from the ceiling.

He tapped his red pen on a transaction line from August 1979.

“Arthur siphoned ninety-two thousand dollars out of the original seminary scholarship trust,” Wade said, leaning over the table.

“He put the church land under a corporate shell company called Oakridge Development.”