Then she was gone.

Fifteen days.

Deb came back at eight forty with two coffees and a sack of the good donuts from the diner on the corner, took one look at me, and set everything on the front counter.

“What?”

I spread both pages on the little table in my office.

She read them with a pen in her hand, the way she reads everything, and the pen moved down the margin and stopped.

“You have never handled a client’s funds in your life.