Beneath the letters lay a bank document.
The header read Authorization to Operate Account. The name of the authorized party, typed neatly on the line, was Gideon Perkins.
He sat back on his heels in the dark hallway and made himself read the letters again, slowly this time, and what chilled him was not the theft but the craft of it.
Whoever wrote these had understood exactly which strings to pull.
They didn’t just say Ezra was broke; they built a whole emotional architecture that made reaching out to him feel like cruelty. Don’t call — you’ll only shame him.
Don’t visit — you’ll embarrass him.