“I don’t know Lance Kessler,” I said. “Does anybody here know Lance Kessler?”
Nobody said anything.
Then, from the chair by the door, in a voice so quiet that half the room had to lean in, Gina Halvorsen said, “He’s my brother.”
Grant turned around. “Gina.”
She didn’t look at him. She looked at her hands.
“Lance sold his plow in 2015,” she said. “He drives for a bakery now. He told me Grant asked if he could use the name for something with the HOA. He said it was a tax thing. He gets a check every year and keeps two hundred dollars for his trouble and sends the rest back.” She swallowed. “I didn’t know it was the plowing. I swear I didn’t know it was the plowing.”
Grant stood up so fast the binder slid off his lap.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. Everybody just…”
