Eighty-five thousand dollars.
The amount I had transferred after selling my Oak Park apartment.
Daniel had said they would repay me when their finances improved.
At least, that was what I remembered.
“Daniel, you told me—”
“I know what I said.”
“Then what are we discussing?”
“There was paperwork.”
“What paperwork?”
“I don’t want to do this on the phone.”
The apartment suddenly felt too quiet.
“Daniel.”
“We’ll talk Sunday.”
“Were there documents I signed?”
“Yes.”
I stood.
“What documents?”
“I need to look at them.”
He sounded genuinely uncertain now.
That frightened me more than defensiveness would have.
After we hung up, I sat at my desk and opened the blue folder.
Receipts.
Bank statements.
Furniture invoices.
Moving documents.
But nothing concerning the eighty-five thousand dollars.
I remembered the bank transfer.
I remembered Daniel sitting across from me at the old apartment.
I remembered Arthur’s accountant, a man named Peter Cohen, telling me not to mix family and money without putting things in writing.
Had I listened?
At seventy-three, there is a particular kind of panic that comes when you cannot immediately find a document you remember existing.
You question the paper.
Then you question the drawer.
Then, eventually, you question yourself.
I spent three hours searching.
Nothing.
Finally, I called Peter.
He had retired two years earlier, but I still had his number.
“Maggie Sullivan,” he said when he answered. “Well, there’s a voice I haven’t heard lately.”
“Peter, do you remember when I moved to Arizona?”
“Of course.”
“Do you remember the money I gave Daniel for the house?”
Silence.
Then his tone changed.
“Yes.”
“Was it a gift?”
“No.”
Relief went through me so quickly I nearly laughed.
“You’re certain?”
“I’m an accountant, Maggie. Certainty is the only interesting thing about me.”
I sat down.
“Do you have anything in writing?”
“I might.”
“Might?”
“I closed the office. Most records were digitized.”
My pulse began pounding.
“Peter, Daniel says there was paperwork.”
