Two days later Eleanor Mercer called.

She was sixty-three and lived in Oregon.

Her voice was warm but wary.

“My mother said Frank Kessler was the only man who ever bothered to answer her questions honestly,” she began.

“Is he well?”

Frank took the call with video enabled so he could read her face.

He smiled when she recognized him.

Eleanor had kept a file of Ruth’s correspondence, including a letter from Harold promising that her investment would be protected and that quarterly statements would follow.