Chapter 6

The third sheet was thin, almost translucent, the kind of paper that came from a printer that had run low on ink. It was a bank statement — a single page, folded in half, with a date stamped in the corner from four years ago.

Delia did not understand most of what it said. There were numbers in columns, a balance at the top, an account name in black print. But she understood the name on the account because it was her own.

DELIA MARSH — TRUST ACCOUNT.

Hale tapped a line near the middle of the page. "This is the settlement account. Your mother's estate was modest, but her life insurance policy was not. She maintained a policy through her employer, and when she died, the proceeds were paid into this trust."

He paused.

"The trust was to be managed by your guardian. The funds were to be used for your care — housing, food, school, medical. And the guardian was required to provide an accounting to the trustee every year."

Delia looked at the page. The balance at the top was six figures. She did not know how to feel about that. She had eaten at the staff table for four years, worn borrowed dresses, slept in the small room off the pantry that had once been a linen closet.

"This is what she was hiding," Delia said. "This isn't just about the guardianship. This is about the money."

"Partially," Hale said. "The shredding of the guardianship page was about the money. The hiding of the envelope was about the codicil." He tapped the bank statement again. "This page was the third sheet in the envelope. It was never shredded. It was simply left behind, crumpled at the bottom of the bin, because it was too small to notice."

Ronan was reading the statement over her shoulder. His face was hard.

"She spent almost all of it," he said. "In the first year. There are withdrawals every week — cash, checks made out to herself, a transfer to the household account that matches exactly the amount of the plate she claimed she had to replace."

Delia looked at the numbers again. The balance at the top was large. The balance at the bottom was nearly nothing — a few hundred dollars, the dregs of a fund meant to raise a child.