My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
“He signed the joint tax return that year,” I said, twisting the plain silver band on my left thumb. “He had to know where forty-five thousand dollars went. He tap-taps his fingers on his chair because he is waiting for someone to ask him about it.”
Christopher watched my hand move across the yellow paper. “You are going to ask him.”
“I am going to ask the state insurance board first,” I said.
I slipped the copied signature into my pocket and closed the blue folder. The kitchen clock on the wall read half past nine. My mother and father would still be in their colonial home on Pine Lane, believing I was hiding in my apartment, too ashamed of my fake fiancé to show my face in town again.
“Stay here,” I said to Christopher. “I need to find Frank.”
“The barber?” Christopher asked.
“He sees everything that comes through this town,” I said. “And he never forgets a face or a car.”
