By ten, the cold draft under the kitchen door had chased us out onto the porch. The smell of damp pine needles was heavy in the morning air, and Kenneth was pacing the gray floorboards, his hands shoved deep into his denim jacket.
“I need a name, Kenneth,” I said, leaning against the wooden railing. “Who is the broker?”
“You do not understand the macroeconomics of this,” he said, turning quickly on his heel. “The dollar is going to collapse by winter, Evelyn. Everybody who knows anything is moving into alternative power. The prophetic guides are very clear about the shift.”
“Prophetic guides do not pay the county recorder,” I said. “Who has the cash?”
He stopped pacing, his eyes darting to the gravel driveway.
“You always look at the mud,” he said. “You never look at the sky.”
He walked straight down the steps to his truck, the gravel crunching under his heavy boots. The engine started with a wet, metallic cough, and he backed down the lane without looking in his rearview mirror.
I drove into Canton at noon. The lobby of First County Bank smelled of damp wool coats and pine-scented floor wax. Sarah, the teller who had worked the corner drawer since my late husband was alive, beckoned me over to her counter.
“I cannot print the full transaction history without the manager’s key, Evelyn,” Sarah said, her voice dropping as she leaned over the black counter. “But it was cash. Forty-five thousand in hundreds.”
“Who signed the slip?” I asked.
Sarah looked down at her screen, her fingers hovering over the keys.
“He brought the power of attorney paper,” she said. “The one from three years ago.”
I stood frozen by the marble counter, my handbag heavy on my arm. I had given Kenneth that document when my hand tremor first started and I was too proud to sign checks for the farm fuel in public, never intending for him to carry it into the vault.
“Did he say what it was for?” I asked.
“He said he was securing your retirement,” Sarah said. “He was very excited about it.”
