Not a clinic.

Not some therapist with a billing service.

A twenty-six-year-old woman who had stood there in my silk robe on a Friday afternoon and thanked me for leaving the house spotless.

Under the header, in the investigator’s small gray print, was a note about the institution itself.

A credit union in Mesa.

Every deposit had arrived as a member-to-member transfer, with twelve dollars charged on the receiving end.

Twelve dollars.