“That was three years ago, Martha,” Ryan said, his voice quiet.
“You should let it rest.”
“Hannah was my closest friend for forty years,” I said, twisting my plain silver wedding band.
“An interest-free loan for a roof repair does not just vanish from the books.”
Ryan stared into his mug, his eyes fixed on the dark liquid.
“People change when they get desperate,” Ryan said.
“I once knew a woman, an old flame back in Portland, who lived in a tiny studio but insisted on leasing a luxury sedan she couldn’t afford.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze shifting to the window.
“What happened to her?” I asked.
“She disappeared when the payments came due,” he said.
Why did Hannah delete her social media accounts three years ago, right after the wire transfer went through?
The local coffee shop on Tenth Street smelled of dark roast and damp wool.
Frank sat across from me at the small corner table, dryly chuckling as he split a cheese Danish in half with his fingers.
He pushed the larger half toward me on a paper napkin.
“Ryan is a good man, Martha,” Frank said, polishing his reading glasses on his blue silk tie.
“But he has always been private about his past.”
“He mentioned someone from Portland today,” I said, taking a sip of my four-dollar black coffee.
“An old relationship.”
Frank stopped wiping his lenses, his posture stiffening for a fraction of a second.
