The bank’s heavy oak door clicked closed behind us, shutting out the low buzz of the lobby.

Bob kept a tight grip on my arm until we’d crossed the alley behind the hardware store, out of sight of the storefront windows.

Then he let go and rounded on me, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“You made me look like a complete fool in front of Donald,” Bob said.

“I asked a simple question about our money, Bob,” I said.

“The bank statement shows an eight-hundred-dollar monthly mortgage payment to a house in Westfall.”