“The afternoon teller at First Community Bank is my second cousin,” Clara whispered, sliding a printed transaction slip out of the folder.

“She ran the master routing audit once Donald went to lunch.”

I bent over the table, reading the black thermal ink lines printed across the slip.

“That eight hundred dollars a month wasn’t coming out of your joint hardware account,” Clara said, her voice serious.

“Bob set up an automatic draft that pulls straight out of your personal inheritance fund.”

My fingers closed tight around my silver pendant.