“I cannot tell you what Ben knows,” Sarah said, sliding the folded deed across the table to me.
“But your father has total control over where they sleep tonight.”
I looked out the window at the gray Ohio sky, wondering if Ben was a partner in this trap or another victim.
“He insisted on buying the house,” I murmured, more to myself than to Sarah.
“Just be careful,” Sarah said, sliding her chair back. “If Arthur asks where you got that, my name was never mentioned.”
“It wasn’t,” I said.
The front door of the yellow house on Elm Street was unlocked when I arrived at two.
I walked in to find Ben sitting at the dining table, surrounded by small slips of paper.
He was carefully sorting grocery receipts, aligning their edges before sliding them into a small blue folder.
He pressed his palms flat against his thighs when he saw me, his shoulders tensing under his brown flannel shirt.
“Cathy,” he said in his quiet, low register. “I did not expect you until dinner.”
“I was in town,” I said, sitting in the ladder-back chair across from him, my eyes on the neat rows of paper. “What are all the receipts for, Ben?”
“The trust,” Ben said, his voice dropping even lower. “Every single penny must be accounted for.”
“Why do you have to show them how much you spend on milk?” I asked.
“Because the house belongs to the trust,” Ben said, filing a receipt from the hardware store.
“You told me you were buying this place yourself, Ben,” I said, watching him closely.
