I didn’t go to the window to watch his headlights swing out onto the road.

Instead, I sat down at the wooden kitchen table and spread Donald’s white ledger sheet out over the yellow tablecloth.

Under the bright overhead light, the black printed ink stood out sharp and clear on the page.

I counted every line down the margin until my thumb hit the bottom corner of the sheet.

The bank ledger showed thirty-eight identical transfers of eight hundred dollars reaching back three whole years.

The courthouse basement was cold even in late October, and it smelled of old ledger paper and floor wax.