“He left ninety-four thousand dollars in unpaid debts on the lake lot account,” Dean said flatly.

“I covered those payments out of my own pocket so the bank wouldn’t foreclose on your house on Elm Street.”

I stood frozen in the doorway.

The cold air off the lake cut through my sweater, but I couldn’t take my hands off the wooden frame.

“He never said a word to me about any ninety-four thousand dollars,” I said.

“Because he was ashamed,” Dean said, slipping the folder into the deep side pocket of his wool overcoat.