The next showed Derek from behind, walking toward what looked like an ATM vestibule.
The next was almost black.
Mara spoke softly. “Rachel.”
“I see it.”
“No. Go back one.”
Rachel did.
The blurred image filled the screen.
At first it looked useless, a photograph taken too quickly through glass.
Then Rachel made out a desk.
A man’s shoulder.
A black deposit bag.
“Can you sharpen that?”
“Not without software I don’t have.”
Rachel zoomed in anyway.
Pixels broke apart.
She clicked forward again.
Another image of the deposit slips.
Then a close-up of handwriting.
Rachel stopped breathing.
The signature was Scott’s.
Or looked like Scott’s.
She knew the careless S, the way the final r trailed upward because Scott always lifted the pen too early. She had watched him sign permission forms, mortgage papers, birthday cards, checks.
“What is that?” Mara asked.
“My husband’s signature.”
