“The only thing the law cares about is whose hand signed the fraudulent wire.”

Just as Frances opened her mouth for one more excuse, a police siren chirped through the afternoon heat, and two Columbus cruisers pulled onto the grass behind Quinn’s Mustang, light bars strobing across the lawn.

Four officers stepped out, and with them an older man in a tailored grey suit — Todd Brannon.

I turned to Quinn, who was watching with wide, vindicated eyes, the sting of the fourteen-dollar bracelet washed clean away.

I put a hand on her back and leaned close.

“Go sit in your car, sweetheart.