“I will have the security file ready by then,” Nestor said.
I walked back to our vehicle, my boots crunching on the thin layer of salt scattered over the asphalt.
Kobe was already in the back seat, his knees pulled up to his chest to keep his bare feet off the floor mats.
He had retrieved the gold-trimmed paper crown from the floor of the vestibule, but someone had stepped on it, leaving a dark, wet tread-mark across the cardboard peaks.
“Mom,” Kobe said, his voice dropping into the rapid, breathless register he used when his sensory limits were reached.
“Yes, Kobe,” I said, adjusting the rearview mirror.
“Is Uncle Gage mad about the thirty-two thousand dollars?” he asked.
I held the steering wheel with both hands, the leather cold against my palms.
“Why do you ask that?” I said.
“He was talking to Grandma on the porch yesterday,” Kobe said.
“He said you had the money in the veterinary account and you were just being selfish,” Kobe said.
“The clinic accounts are corporate assets, Kobe,” I said.
“But he said we ruined his business because you wouldn’t sign,” Kobe said.
