And Emma had gripped my sleeve at the park, begging me to follow him.

I picked up a brass pen and tapped it against the leather desk calendar.

I couldn’t understand why Mark demanded forty thousand dollars every January if Emma saw none of it.

The question sat loud and heavy in the small office.

For seven years, I had written that check and handed it over without a single doubt.

I couldn’t write the next one.

Not without knowing where the last seven years of money had gone.