He reached up, took off his wire-rimmed reading glasses, and polished them slowly with his white linen handkerchief.

“Your mother thinks I’m at the hardware store in town,” he said, his voice coming out in a low, quiet rumble.

He pushed a thick brown expanding folder across the scarred Formica table between our two cold glasses of ice water.

“What’s in here, Dad?” I asked.

“Proof,” Harold said, setting his glasses back on his nose.

“Bank statements from when we sold the lake lot three years ago.”

I undid the brass clasp and took out the top stack of white paper.