Sarah picked up the plastic bag first.

She turned it toward the desk lamp, studying the crisp printing on the front of the check.

“One hundred thousand dollars,” Sarah said, reading the amount aloud.

“Drawn on Pinecrest National Bank, payable to you.”

“My father handed me that check in his office suite on Monday morning,” I said.

“He told me it depended on my signing a written false statement saying my son tripped over the edge of a rug.”

Sarah turned the bag over to look at the lower left corner.