“Almost every single one of these has been stamped,” Raymond said, his words tripping over each other. “Who defaces forty thousand dollars in cash?”
I slid my silver wedding band up and down my knuckle, a habit that always seemed to quiet my mind when Raymond started to spin himself into a knot. The room was silent except for the low hum of my refrigerator from the kitchen.
“You brought these home from the bank,” Raymond said, leaning over the table. “Did you swap these out, Evelyn? Is this some trick to tie up the estate while you sort out your own bills?”
“I did no such thing,” I said, speaking slowly to keep the anger out of my voice. “These markings do not look like ordinary wear and tear, mind you.”
I took the bill from his hand and walked to the dining room window, holding the green paper against the autumn light that filtered through the yellowing oak trees outside. The watermark of the security thread was visible, running straight and true down the left side.
“It is real currency, Raymond,” I said, turning back to the table. “The paper is genuine.”
“Then someone used our father for money laundering,” Raymond said, his voice rising as he stood up. “We cannot deposit this. The state will freeze everything.”
By four o’clock, we were back in the lobby of Shelby County Trust, sitting at a low mahogany desk near the teller counter. Clara Mercer held one of the bills under a heavy magnifying glass, her head tilted as she studied the violet arrow.
She took off her glasses, pulling a blue microfiber cloth from her pocket to polish the thick lenses with small, circular motions. Her whisper was barely audible over the hum of the old desktop computer on her desk.
