I looked over her shoulder at the screen, trying to read the tiny green letters. “Is there a dollar amount listed on the index?”
“Only the initial deposit record from the state,” she said, squinting again. “But the ledger itself is part of the sealed file.”
“How much money did Clara actually take from the estate?” Noah asked, his voice low and tight.
“I can’t tell you that,” the clerk said, sliding Noah’s license back across the counter.
By six o’clock, the wind had grown stronger, whistling through the gaps in the wooden siding of Noah’s garage behind his apartment. A single bare bulb hung from a black wire in the center of the ceiling, casting long, swaying shadows across the concrete floor.
Noah’s old sedan was parked inside with the hood propped open by a wooden broom handle. He was leaning over the engine bay, his face smudged with black grease as he worked a socket wrench against a rusted bolt on the alternator.
