My phone was already in my hand.
Before I could dial, another message appeared on Jessica’s screen.
Tell Michael to check the account he opened for his parents.
The money didn’t disappear.
It was moved.
I read the message twice.
Then I remembered the account.
Six years earlier, after buying the farmhouse, I had opened a separate account for property taxes, insurance, and medical expenses.
I had given my parents access, but because I was living in Chicago, I had added Jessica as an authorized manager to help with automatic payments.
I had not checked the statements in nearly four years.
I had believed the monthly transfers were enough.
Robert saw the recognition on my face.
“What is it?” he asked.
I looked at Jessica.
She was crying now, but quietly, without trying to defend herself.
“I know where the first loan went,” I said.
“Where?”
I opened the bank app.
