voice low, “your husband left something… not what he told you about.”
My heart thudded in my chest, a drumbeat I could hear over the hum of the bank’s fluorescent lights.
Inside the folded letter, Gerald’s familiar slant of handwriting sprawled across the page.
He wrote, “The two thousand was only a cover. There is another account, hidden, that holds enough for us both to start over.”
A cold whisper ran down my spine. “Hidden” meant more than a spare key in a drawer;
