A thousand ordinary Tuesday phone calls that never happened, each one small and each one gone for good.
Money had a number and the number could be recovered.
But there was no account, anywhere, holding the decade of ordinary closeness his brother had quietly spent, and no court on earth could order it returned.
Joanne was crying now, quietly.
And then she stood, walked to a bag by her chair, and set a folder on the table.
She had brought documents — records of a luxury condominium in another city, statements from an offshore account held under the shell company’s name.