Every Night at Six Thirty, Bob Drove Away, Until His Other Wife Said My Name

“Nobody signed that log in three whole years.”

The vault was completely silent apart from the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.

“The law runs on certified paper, Penelope, not on excuses handed out at six thirty p.m.,” Clara said.

“Can you make me an official certified copy right now?” I asked.

Clara took the ledger over to the copy machine, pressed the blue stamp onto the corner of the copy, and slipped the fresh page into a manila envelope.

“Next we need the original bank signature card,” she said.