“A private investigator charges two thousand dollars just to pull old records.”

“I have my savings from the school library,” I said.

“Look, you’ll spend your last two thousand dollars to find out Paul had an eleven-year-old kid with some woman named Rebecca,” Sarah said.

She picked up her phone and slid it into her coat pocket, her face set in the practical, hard look she had worn when our father died.

“The tax records are in the attic,” I said.