“Adrienne Kowalski,” I said. “That was my maiden name.”
“Adrienne Kowalski,” he agreed. “Who married Frank Davis in 1983, had three children, and worked as a school secretary at Whitman Middle School for thirty-one years.”
“Once I found your name,” he said, “I wanted to know how you were doing before I just showed up. I didn’t want to embarrass you. If you were doing well, I was going to send a letter. If you were struggling, I wanted to help without making a big thing of it.”
He tapped the folder.
“So the researcher did a little more looking. Public records, mostly. And a few conversations.”
“And?” I said.
He looked at me steadily.
“I know you live on a small pension from the school district and your Social Security,” he said. “About thirty-one hundred a month together.”
I didn’t say anything. It was exactly right.
“I know you lent David sixty thousand dollars two years ago when his accounting practice was struggling,” he said. “From your savings. There’s a promissory note recorded with his business loan file. He hasn’t made a payment on it.”
