David came by Wednesday evening. He looked worn down, his tie loosened, his eyes rimmed with red. He’d taken his father’s death hard.

“Mom,” he said, settling into the kitchen chair where Bob used to sit, “we need to talk about Dad’s finances. I’ve been going through his office files, and there are things that don’t add up.”

My stomach dropped. “What kind of things?”

He pulled out a folder—statements, reports, documents I’d never seen.

“Did you know Dad had three different checking accounts?”

“Three?” I stared at him. “No. We only had the joint account.”

He pointed at a column of numbers. “This one’s been empty for six months. This one was closed last year. And this one…” He tapped a third statement. “This one has a balance of forty-three dollars.”

The room tilted.

“That’s not possible,” I whispered. “Our retirement alone should have over four hundred thousand.”