I didn't sleep much Saturday night.
I lay awake doing what I do at the end of every month at work.
Reconciling.
Thirty thousand in.
Zero to vendors.
At seven Sunday morning, I sent Detective Brandt the screenshots.
All of them.
The three hundred dollars, wedding stuff.
Carol's text from Friday.
Rick's text from Saturday, both bubbles.
I wrote two lines under them.
He wants $30,000 from me, in person, at his mother's house, Monday at 5 PM.
I won't be bringing a check.
I read it four times before I sent it.
I was about to bring a police detective into the living room of my daughter's grandmother.
There's no version of that a family forgets.
I sent it anyway.
At 11:30, Carol called.
"Can we talk," she said.
"Without Rick."
"I was told to keep my distance," I said.
"I'm calling you, Jill."
"That's different."
She picked the Panera.
The same strip mall, between the Panera and the UPS Store.
Eight days earlier I'd sat in that parking lot with a wedding dress across the back seat.
She was already in a booth when I got there at two.
Church cardigan, a cup of hot water, a tea bag she hadn't opened.
Her purse was in her lap.
On top of it sat a Ziploc bag with the yellow carbon of her check inside.
At the counter I ordered a medium coffee.
"Anything for your friend?" the girl asked.
I looked over at Carol.
She was waiting.
For twenty-four years, at every graduation lunch and birthday dinner, I had been the one who reached.
"Just the coffee," I said.
I sat down across from her.
Carol took the carbon out of the Ziploc and smoothed it flat on the table between us with two fingers.
Pay to the order of Richard Sorensen — Memo: Emma's wedding
"I cashed my CD for this," she said.
"Thirty-one years at that school."
"I wanted that girl to have a wedding."
"So did I," I said.
"Then here's what I'll do."
She folded her hands on the table.
"Twenty-two thousand four hundred."
"What you'd have paid Thursday anyway."
"You give me that, and I tell the detective it was a family misunderstanding."
"Rick doesn't need to know the number."
"I'm giving you a way out, Jill."
"For Emma."
It was almost word for word what Brooke had said in the fitting room.
The day you couldn't give her.
A way out.
Everyone in that family was always giving me something.
"I didn't take your money, Carol."
"Then where is it?"
"Ask your check."
She frowned.
"When it cleared, did you ever look at the back?"
"Why would I look at the back?" she said.
"It cleared."
"And Rick looked."
"He's my son."
"He's done all my computer things since his father passed."
"He set up the bank so I wouldn't have to bother."
She said it the way you'd say the sun comes up.
I could have told her.
Stem and Vine in August.
The pontoon with the dealer frame.
Gary.
I didn't.
She had to read it herself, or she would never believe it.
I drank my coffee.
She didn't drink her tea.
When she stood to go, she put the carbon back in its Ziploc and the Ziploc back in her purse.
"Rick's bringing papers tomorrow," she said.
"A repayment agreement."
"You'll sign it, and we'll set up payments, and Emma never has to hear the word police again."
"Emma's heard it," I said.
Carol looked at me for a long moment.
"I always thought you were the decent one," she said.
Then she left.
Her tea bag was still in its paper.
Through the window I watched her walk to her Buick.
She went slowly, holding the purse against her chest with both arms.
I sat in the booth until my coffee was cold.
Through the window I could see the spot where I'd parked eight days ago.
A minivan was in it now, with a stick-figure family on the back glass.
That night Lorraine called.
"You're really bringing a cop into Carol Sorensen's living room."
"Rick invited the money," I said.
"I'm bringing the receipts."
"Wear the navy," Lorraine said.
"You look like an auditor in the navy."
I laid the navy blazer out on the bed, with the folder on top.
At 9:12, my phone lit up.
Received — I'll be at Mrs. Sorensen's at 5.
A second message came in under it.
Don't bring a check.