Chapter 22: The Account

Vivian's house sat behind a clipped hedge, white-pillared, with a lawn that had never been walked on.

A rental van was backed up the drive to the front steps.

Winslow's SUV was parked across the end of the drive behind it, so nothing could leave.

I rode in the bank officer's sedan with the CFO in the back seat, hugging his briefcase.

A sheriff's deputy followed in a cruiser with its lights off.

"Remember," the bank officer said. "We inspect collateral. We touch nothing we aren't entitled to touch."

"I'll touch nothing," I said.

"You say that like a threat."

"Winslow will do the touching."

Across the road, three neighbors stood at the ends of their driveways in cardigans, holding coffee.

The front door stood open.

Two movers in gray coveralls were carrying a wooden wine crate up the cellar stairs between them.

They were having trouble with its weight.

Darrell came down the hall behind them in shirtsleeves.

His hair was wet with sweat.

He saw the five of us on the porch, and he stopped.

"No," he said.

"Good morning, Darrell."

"This is private property."

"It's collateral," the bank officer said, and unfolded a notice.

"Gaines Hospitality holds the deed of trust on this house. Its new board has called the loan."

She read the next line without looking up.

"Under section nine, the holder may enter and inspect at any hour after notice."

"I'm Gaines Hospitality."

"You were," said the CFO, very quietly, from behind my shoulder.

Darrell looked at him.

For the first time in my hearing the CFO looked back and did not apologize.

"Mother!" Darrell called up the stairs.

Vivian appeared on the landing in a quilted robe and pearls, with her silver bob unbrushed.

"What is she doing in my house?"

"Inspecting it," I said. "Move the crate, please."

The movers set it down.

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