I turned the silver band on my finger again, feeling the smooth, cool metal against my skin.

“The bank records don’t show debts, Dean.

They show ninety-four thousand dollars gone from the timber fund.”

Dean’s right hand jerked, his fingers curling into a loose fist in his coat pocket.

“Where’d you hear that number?” he asked.

“It was on the county tax assessment,” I lied quietly.

Dean drew a sharp breath through his nose.

He brushed his sleeve again, much harder this time, as if he were trying to scrub out a stain.