“If you sign this statement, the county prosecutor can file formal grand larceny charges before noon,” Wade said, holding up a white legal document.

I stepped off the stool and rested my right hand on the edge of the desk.

“The bank board will get back the full principal from his personal holdings at the afternoon meeting, right?”

“Every penny,” Wade said.

“Plus the interest that’s built up.

But signing the affidavit puts him in a county jail cell by dark.”

I went to the window and looked out at the yellow maple leaves skittering across the driveway.

“We came back here to clear your mother’s name and protect the church land, Wade.