By ten the following morning, Arthur Miller had the bank subpoena spread open on his desk before I even had Toby settled in his stroller.

Arthur is sixty-four, old enough to be my dad, and he still used the same kind of yellow legal pad he had used back when my father was alive.

He tapped it twice with his silver Parker pen.

“Look at page four,” he said.

I leaned in.

The wire transfer record showed the construction account number at the top.

Four hundred eighty-six thousand dollars had gone out on March 3 at 9:12 AM.

“The authorization line reads B.