Her thumb followed the blue ink lines at the bottom, where the auditor had signed his name next to forty-two.

“My name isn’t on the report,” she said, her voice falling to a whisper.

“Your name is clean,” I said.

“The bank traced every keystroke back to the penthouse computer on the night you were in Tyler.”

A single tear fell onto the corner of the page, and she wiped it off quickly with her sleeve before the ink could run.

“I spent eight months waiting for a call from the sheriff,” she said.