“What your brother needs to understand,” he said.

He closed his eyes and turned his face toward the window, ending the conversation before I could ask about the bank envelopes sitting downstairs on his desk.

By four-thirty that afternoon Dad had fallen into a heavy sleep, and I went down to the kitchen to boil water for tea.

Julian came in through the back screen door without knocking, carrying a stiff black leather briefcase.

He didn’t ask how Dad was resting or whether the hospice nurse had delivered the afternoon medication.

He walked straight to the wooden rolltop desk beside the refrigerator and began turning over the stack of unopened mail.

“Where are the First National Bank statements for August?” he asked.

I set the kettle down on the front burner.

“Dad keeps his banking envelopes in his study drawers.”

“Not lately,” Julian said.

He adjusted his gold wristwatch with two sharp flicks of his thumb.

“I need to review his checking balances before the end of the month.”

“The bank accounts are locked until Samuel Price meets with us,” I said.

Julian cut me off with a loud, hearty laugh that echoed off the yellow kitchen tile.