I looked at Mom.
“Why do I know this name?”
“Because you met him.”
“When?”
“At your wedding.”
My stomach dropped.
A memory surfaced.
A tall man standing near the back of the reception.
Gray suit.
Silver watch.
Abigail speaking with him privately near the garden.
“You told me he was your cousin,” I said.
Mom shook her head.
“He wasn’t.”
Before I could ask what he was, the private-room door opened.
Martin stepped inside.
His face was grim.
“Samuel, we have a problem.”
“What?”
He glanced at Mom.
Then at the documents.
“Someone was waiting outside the bank.”
“Who?”
Martin stepped aside.
The man behind him was older now.
Thinner.
His hair almost completely gray.
But I recognized him immediately.
The man from my wedding.
The man whose obituary I had seen six years ago.
The man whose name was printed throughout my dead father’s fraud file.
