Everything is in the bottom drawer. You do not owe these people one more sleepless night. Love, Eleanor

The bottom drawer held a folder nearly as thick as a family Bible. I carried it outside.

Rebecca was explaining how the boathouse could be converted into a rental when I stepped onto the porch. “Rebecca,” I said. “How is Trent’s business?”

Her voice caught. “Fine. Why?”

“That’s strange. According to these records, his firm has been struggling since last fall. Your house is carrying two loans, your cards are stretched thin, and you’ve been using appearances to outrun numbers.”

A trace of color drained from her face. Not all of it. But enough.