Four decades of tracing money that had gone somewhere it should not have gone.
I was good at it. I have stood in rooms and told people exactly which account they’d stopped looking at.
Ten years ago my wife, Marianne, passed away after a long illness that took most of what we had.
I sold the house. I paid what was owed. And I used what was left to get our son, Emmett, through the end of his degree and to keep his software company from going under that January.
He turned it into a multimillion-dollar business. I have never been prouder of anything.
And somewhere around sixty-two, I made a quiet decision: I would never be another thing for that boy to carry.
That decision put me in a cold apartment in Calloway for three years, with a radiator that works when it likes and a space heater beside the kitchen table.
