She came up the aisle with her cardigan sleeves pulled over her hands and a photocopy in a clear sleeve held flat against her chest.

“Do you recognize this page, ma’am?”

“I made that copy on Mama’s kitchen printer in February.” She swallowed.

“She doesn’t know I did.”

“Read the transfers, please.”

“Sixty-two thousand four hundred to Whitmore Construction.” Her voice carried farther than I expected.

“Forty-eight thousand to Oakridge Holdings.

Ninety-five thousand to the same.”