Chapter 22 · Anonymous Quarterly

Ashcombe’s pen stopped dead the second my hand hit the ledger.

Nobody in this town dares shove back when you’re holding medical power of attorney. They just get real stiff and dangerously polite.

"Mrs. Shore." He cleared his throat like he had gravel stuck in it. "That file is trust property."

"So am I." I dragged the heavy book across the mahogany. "Page one."

Behind me, the corner armchair creaked.

Garrett hadn't moved a muscle in forty minutes. Long legs stretched out, scuffed work boots crossed at the ankle, working a wooden toothpick between his teeth like he was watching a ballgame nobody else had tickets to. He’d walked into this lawyer’s office wearing the same canvas jacket he’d slept in, grease under his thumb, and told the receptionist he was my husband. Flat. Deadpan. No smirk.

The receptionist had blushed all the way down to her collar anyway.

I flipped the page.

*Non-emergency transport. Four thousand three hundred dollars.* Twice in March. My mother hadn't left her hospice mattress since October.

"That’s a specialized lift fee," Ashcombe said smoothly. "Every private transport requires—"

"She’s on a feeding tube and a catheter, Ashcombe. Where the hell did you transport her?