The lawnmower drone, the wind in the oak, the murmurs of the guests all faded into a high ringing in my ears.

It was the custodial account.

The college fund my father had built by sacrificing his own comfort so that Quinn would never chain herself to a student loan.

Every cent that had bought Presley’s shiny new toy had been siphoned straight out of my daughter’s future.

The trust required two signatures for any disbursement over ten thousand dollars — the primary custodian, Frances, and the secondary trustee, me.

Frances’s signature was there, bold and looping and arrogant in blue ink.