We walked up the wooden steps to her porch. The yellow porch light above the door hummed with a low, dry buzz that sounded like an insect caught in a screen.
I knocked three times on the screen door frame. Inside, a floorboard creaked, followed by the soft, shuffling sound of slippered feet on the carpet.
“Grandma?” Noah called out. “It’s us. We need to talk to you about Josh’s bank records.”
The lace curtain on the small window beside the door twitched. A thin sliver of Grandma Ruth’s face appeared in the gap, her wire-rimmed glasses catching the yellow light from the porch.
She did not turn the lock. Her fingers held the edge of the curtain tight against the wood, her eyes wide as she looked at Noah.
“Go home, boys,” she whispered through the glass. “It’s late.”
“We found the statement from twelve years ago,” Noah said, stepping closer to the window. “Just tell us what happened to the account.”
