“The hospital bills for this week come to three thousand two hundred dollars,” Wade said, running his thumb down a column of printed numbers.

“Arthur froze Mother’s personal checking account at noon today.”

“At the bank he told me he’d only frozen the commercial trust,” I said, pulling out the chair across from him.

“He lied to you,” Wade said.

He reached into his leather briefcase and took out a white document stamped by the county clerk.

“He brought this to Mother’s room yesterday morning while you were at the church office.”

It was a draft marriage license application, with Margaret’s dark ink signature on the bottom line.