We have an eleven o’clock meeting.”

By eleven, the sun was hot against the granite front of the Greenfield Bank branch on Market Street.

The double glass entrance was locked for the weekend, but David knocked once on the heavy side door.

A man in a charcoal suit opened it from the inside and showed us into a private corner office.

Miller, the senior loan officer, pulled three blue ledger folders from a metal filing cabinet.

“Your father Arthur came in on Thursday morning,” Miller said, looking at David before nodding to me.