I’d seen it on birthday cards, on a christening card for a cousin’s baby, and on an anniversary note she’d taped to a bottle of wine.

Just above it, on the tenant line, Brooke Kessler had signed in black ink.

Twenty-eight hundred out of thirty-five hundred left seven hundred a month, and the account had spent that as well.

Car insurance under Brooke’s name.

A phone bill.

A gym membership in Scottsdale with a juice bar, according to the list of recurring debits.

I shut the folder, then opened it again and read the debit list a second time, and wrote the account number on the back of my hand in ballpoint so I’d quit misreading it.

The folder went into the suitcase next to my laptop.