I saw the date stamp from April third and a destination routing code labeled regional commercial escrow.

By five o’clock, the stale smell of the break room coffee seemed stuck in my coat, and the air in the logistics company parking lot carried the cold draft of coming rain.

Edward walked beside me toward my car, his canvas bag slung over his shoulder.

“You’ve been pulling at your shirt hem all afternoon,” Edward said.

“Max withdrew forty-one thousand two hundred dollars from a joint account three weeks ago,” I said, stopping beside my driver’s door.

Edward stopped in his tracks.