Gordon pulled out a chair and sat down heavily, his hands shaking. “It is in a bank in Tulsa,” he said. “Marlene opened it eleven years ago, under Joan’s name.” Mom gasped. Marlene shouted that he was lying, but Gordon slid a thin envelope across the table with a bank logo in the corner. “I found the statements in her desk last week. I could not keep quiet anymore.”
I tore the envelope open. The account held my name, my birth date, and my Social Security number, none of which I had ever given to a bank in Tulsa. The balance was nearly nine hundred thousand dollars. Then headlights swept across the kitchen window, and someone started pounding on the front door. “Open up,” a man’s voice called. “Federal agents.” Marlene dropped into a chair, and the color left her lips entirely.
