Halfway down the second page, highlighted in pale gray ink, was a formal record of an incoming phone inquiry.

The entry showed the date, the exact minute of the call, and the caller’s full name as logged by the bank’s automated system.

Daniel had called the automated account line twice on Tuesday afternoon, using my Social Security number to ask for the available balance of my house sale proceeds.

The security system had locked him out because he didn’t have the four-digit security code I set up after Harold died.

I put the page down flat on the desk right beside Harold’s blue ceramic mug.