William Edwards Leaves His Screaming Son on a Friday Afternoon in Hartford
“That is impossible,” I said. “My paycheck cleared last Friday.”
“Take a look,” the clerk said, turning the little screen toward me.
The words on the display were clear: Insufficient Funds.
I took the card back, my fingers cold against the plastic. Marsha had access to both accounts, and she had known exactly when the custody papers would be delivered. I stepped toward the payphone near the vending machines, but decided to use my own cell phone, my fingers cold against the glass screen. I dialed the automated number for the credit union.
“Welcome to the automated inquiry system,” the recorded voice said, perfectly neutral. “Please enter your account number followed by the pound sign.”
I pressed the keys, my thumb slipping once on the plastic glass.
“Your current balance in checking is zero dollars,” the voice said. “Your current balance in savings is zero dollars. Your last transaction was an online transfer of eleven thousand four hundred dollars on Tuesday morning at ten past eight.”
The transfer had gone to a private account, a separate savings line that required only Marsha’s signature to empty.
