“Not today, sweetheart,” I said. “I have to run some errands before the bank closes.”
Ben looked at the deposit slip, then back at me, his hand dropping to his side.
“We have everything we need right here,” Ben said, his voice flat and quiet.
“I know you do,” I said.
“George helped us with the account setup,” Rosie said, her face bright with pride. “He said it was for our future.”
Ben cleared his throat and moved the deposit slip toward the edge of the microwave, out of direct sight.
“Your father just wanted to make sure things were set up properly,” Ben said.
“He always does,” I said.
I looked at the way Ben’s boots were clean, polished in a way he rarely bothered with when he worked at the garage.
“Did you go to the bank yesterday, Ben?” I asked.
He hesitated, his thumb tracing the rim of his coffee mug.
“Just to sign some papers,” he said.
“What kind of papers?”
“Standard housing things,” Ben said, his voice dropping.
I nodded, but the sight of the slip remained with me as I walked back to my car.
The asphalt of the Oak Creek Bank parking lot was covered in damp, brown maple leaves by the afternoon.
Aunt Margaret was already there, sitting in her blue Buick with the engine idling.
She rolled down the passenger window as I approached, her sharp eyes scanning the street.
“Get in, Clara,” she said.
I climbed into the passenger seat, the smell of peppermint and cold vinyl filling the space.
“Your father was here on Thursday,” Margaret said, tapping her fingers sharply on the steering wheel.
“He usually does the firm’s deposits on Thursdays,” I said.
“He had Benjamin with him,” Margaret said. “They went into the private office at the back, the one with the tinted glass.”
“Ben doesn’t have an account here,” I said. “He uses the credit union by the highway.”
“They were in there forty minutes,” Margaret said. “And when they came out, George was carrying that ledger bound in black cloth.”
I looked toward the brick front of the bank, where the glass doors reflected the grey sky.
“Why would Ben be with him?” I asked.
“Your father has always believed everything has a specific price,” Margaret said.
She turned off the ignition, the sudden quiet in the car making her words hang in the air.
“What kind of price?” I asked.
“The kind that buys silence,” Margaret said, looking straight ahead.
“Do you think George is paying him?” I asked.
“I saw them shake hands, Clara,” Margaret said. “It wasn’t a family greeting. It was a business transaction.”
“Ben wouldn’t take money to be with Rosie,” I said.
“We don’t know what Benjamin would do when faced with George’s legal pressure,” Margaret said.
“I need to see those records,” I said.
“You won’t get them from the bank,” Margaret said. “Not without George’s signature.”
“Then where do I look?”
“We should talk somewhere else,” I said.
We moved to Margaret’s porch as the sun dipped behind the pines, leaving the air thin and sharp.
Margaret handed me a cup of warm cider, the ceramic mug rough against my palms.
“If George is using the family trust to move money, there will be records,” Margaret said. “But he keeps those files locked.”
