“It was the one in the navy suit,” Mrs. Prescott said.
Not the blonde. My mother-in-law, Eleanor, sitting in the front row in her good navy suit, nodding along like a woman at a christening. The courtroom made a sound I have never heard before or since. My husband turned and stared at his own mother, and I watched him understand something a full second before I did.
He had not known. That was the part nobody predicted. He had genuinely believed I emptied that account, because Eleanor had told him so, and because he had spent forty-seven years believing whatever his mother handed him. The blonde in the lavender blouse turned out to be Eleanor’s sister-in-law, there because Eleanor had asked her to drive. She had no idea either.
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