That afternoon I printed the check images from the bank packet at the library, two pages, and spread them on the kitchen table before David came in from the garage.

The back of the dividend check carried one endorsement line and an account number ending in 4417.

He read over my shoulder with his keys still in his hand.

“Whose is 4417?”

“Not Martha’s.”

He set the keys down and pulled out the chair, and for a moment the only sound in the kitchen was the refrigerator.

“Mother’s accounts are frozen on his say-so.”

“Secondary access.