“I’ve got some.” He stuffed his hands in his pocket and waited for Ann to lay into him. “The business. The Anibitz thing? It’s starting to do well.”

“We need to talk about your money, Michael,” she said, although the iciness he’d thought he’d heard in her voice was gone. “Can I show you something?” She walked past him into the living room and pulled a manila envelope out of the desk. “Let’s sit on the porch. The light is better.”

What was this all about? Michael followed her out to the three-season porch that looked out into the woods. The room was the last to be fully updated. The white paint on the clapboard wall was chipped, and the rusty screens pulled away from the edges of their frames. Ann had replaced the old couch with a small loveseat that Michael had to admit was a lot nicer, with upholstered cushions that were, well, cushiony. Ann gestured for him to sit right next to her. He must have looked like he didn’t believe her. “Sit,” she said, patting the cushion harder.

He sank down, careful to keep some distance between them.

She set the envelope on her lap.

“What is it?”

Ann tilted the envelope so that Michael could see what was written on it: Please give this to your mom.

“That’s not Avery’s handwriting,” he said. Then he looked again. Shelby? His stomach knotted up. That was her writing. What was she up to?

Ann smiled and opened the envelope, pulling out a pile of papers held together with a binder clip. “There’s a little note.” She pulled off a sticky note that said FAILED NUN—he’d given those notes to Deeds as a stocking stuffer last year—and held it close so he could read it. Michael is a good man!

“I had nothing to do with this. I didn’t put Shelby up to whatever this is, I swear.”

“It’s OK, really. She’s great. We met for coffee this morning. She’s shared lots of helpful information.” She tossed the papers so that they landed on Michael’s lap. The one on top was a statement. He immediately recognized the bank logo. “The account,” he said. He felt like he’d swallowed a stone.

She ran her finger down a column. “Here’s where it started, with fifty grand, the same amount Anthony told me you’d extracted from him.”

“I didn’t extract—”

“And here are the monthly payments to me—here, here, here, here. Anthony said you’d set this up. He said it was your idea. But it was his, wasn’t it?” Ann pointed at Anthony’s name on one of the pieces of paper. “Anthony was on the account, too. It was all set up to look like the money was coming from just you.”