I folded the printed tax page, placed it inside my leather handbag alongside the deposit receipt showing thirty-one thousand eight hundred seven dollars, and drove straight to Maple Avenue.

Samuel Price sat behind his dark mahogany desk with Dad’s thin leather ledger open between us.

He tapped a silver ballpoint pen against the leather margin three times before he spoke.

“Your father’s preliminary asset summary from twenty-four months ago listed six hundred eighty-three thousand dollars in cash reserves,” Samuel said, choosing his legal phrasing carefully, with long, deliberate pauses.

“The teller at First National told me thirty-one thousand seven hundred dollars remain,” I said, clearing my throat gently before stating the numbers.