“Arthur never backed a loan without listing the trust as the primary source,” Martha said. She tapped her fingernail against the side of the machine. “But look at the authorization stamp on the back page.”
I leaned closer to the screen. The authorization stamp was dated three weeks ago, but my father had been dead for four years. The handwriting underneath the stamp was not my father’s tight cursive, but a loose, broad imitation that I recognized from our household checking accounts.
“Ethan signed this,” I said.
Martha turned her head slowly, looking at me over the rim of her glasses.
“Some files are better left in the basement, Nora,” she said.
I wrote the routing number down on the back of my deposit slip.
The hospital cafeteria was nearly empty at two in the afternoon, save for a few nurses in blue scrubs at the corner table. Liam sat across from me, his silver pen tapping a steady, rhythmic beat against the edge of his plastic tray. He had not touched his sandwich, but his coffee cup was already half empty.
