Three Suitcases Left in the Rain and Nineteen Million Dollars in Cancun
“She told the agent she has power of attorney for both you and Nathan,” Martha said, looking toward my garage. “She told them you were relocating to an assisted living facility in San San Antonio.”
The iron gate at the end of the driveway clicked, and the sound of Nathan’s car engine echoed between the brick walls. He parked by the back steps and sat in the driver’s seat for a long moment before opening the door.
“Go talk to him,” Martha whispered, her hand resting on my arm. “He looks like a ghost.”
Nathan followed me into the garage room at three o’clock. He sat on the edge of my metal cot, his hands jammed deep into his trousers pockets, his gaze fixed on the concrete floor. I stood by the small wooden table, holding the red folder Frank had given me. He did not look up when I pulled the chair out.
“I need you to tell me the truth about the business accounts, Nathan,” I said. “We have to be honest with each other now.”
