“I saw an email on her laptop. I asked her about it.”
“And you told me nothing.”
“She said she was canceling it.”
Ruth’s fingers stopped on the paper.
“Did you see the power of attorney?”
Cole nodded.
“Did you see my signature?”
Another nod.
I pulled my hand from beneath Ruth’s without meaning to.
All morning, he had passed through my kitchen. He had tasted the stuffing. He had asked whether I still made the sweet potatoes with pecans.
He had known then.
“I thought I could handle it,” he whispered.
“When?”
“After the holiday.”
I stared at the narrow strip of carpet between his shoes.
“What if the money had gone through before then?”
He had no answer.
Tara leaned forward.
“He knew we needed money. Don’t let him pretend otherwise.”
“For what?” her father asked.
She rubbed her palms together.
“A few things got ahead of us.”
“How much?” Cole said.
She looked away.
Ruth placed a printed email on the coffee table. The lender had asked where the loan proceeds should be sent. Tara had supplied an account in her own name.
In the same correspondence, she had described me as unable to manage financial discussions.
I read that sentence twice.
Then I read the one explaining that I might become confused or distressed if contacted directly.
The room seemed to shrink around the page.
“You told them not to speak to me.”
