When Michael had discovered that a chunk of the money was missing, he’d asked the bank to send photocopies of the statements. There they were, straight out of his file, including the withdrawal slip with Anthony’s signature, signed so hard the pen almost broke through. It was painful for Michael to see Anthony’s handwriting. The thought of Anthony still bothered Michael in that primitive, raw way, only now it was harder for Michael to summon the anger and revulsion he’d once felt. He’d pulled up the news stories after Jason told him he’d died—news Jason had received when he called Maureen to tell her about the house. He saw the photo of police tape on the porch steps, another of Maureen with her hand over her face, trying to avoid reporters. He hated to see her so upset.

“Anthony took that money, not you.” Ann turned her head to get a good look at him.

Michael stared at his feet. He still wore his battered Red Wing boots even though he wasn’t landscaping anymore. He liked the way they made him feel like he was really working. He let out a deep breath. Here was something he’d wondered again and again: How could one man sneak into their lives the way Anthony had, and mess everything up? He’d been a crowbar of a man, wedging open every seam he could pry loose.

“Thirsty?” Ann asked.

“Yeah,” Michael said. “I guess I am.”

When she left the room Michael wondered if she’d ever really even been there in the first place, or was it just a dream? She returned holding two glasses of lemonade, poured into the old Welch’s jelly jars decorated with Muppets from Space characters. One with Kermit in an astronaut suit holding his helmet like John Glenn, the other with Gonzo just before blastoff.

“Lemonade, spiked with vodka. I think we both need it.” She took a long drink and reached for the papers, which had fallen to the floor. “So, here’s what I thought was fishy.” Her bangs fell forward, and she gently tucked them behind her small ear the same way she’d tucked her hair behind her ears when she was young. When a thick strand slipped out, it was all Michael could do to resist fixing it for her. “The account was drained to almost nothing. But then look, suddenly there’s a deposit, and a check issued to me for seventy-eight bucks. Such a random amount. Two months later? A hundred and twelve. And here, nineteen dollars. November was a good month: six hundred and eleven.” She looked up at him, waiting for Michael to say something.

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

“You made those deposits. That was your money.”