“Every Friday for thirty years.”
“Would you look at mine?”
He didn’t answer right away.
He pulled out the chair across from me and sat down with his big hands folded on the buttercup table.
“Nance. If I look at your statements, and your boy finds out, he’ll say that’s exactly what I was after.”
“I know.”
“I’m asking anyway.”
He nodded once.
“Then don’t show me the app.”
“Call the bank. Ask them to mail you paper. The last twelve months.”
“To your house, not his.”
“And read them yourself before you show anybody.”
“Including me.”
That was the thing about Gene.
He was building me a ramp, and he still wanted me to walk up it on my own.
I drove home at dusk with the envelope in my purse.
I called the bank from Ray’s recliner.
I’d never sat in it before.
It still smelled like him.
