THE EMAIL I SENT BEFORE DESSERT

I bought at the drugstore. She never knew the difference.

Inside that first one I scanned: a single sheet of paper. Bank routing numbers. An account I didn’t recognize, in a name I didn’t recognize.

Diane Kessler.

There it was, six weeks before dinner, and I’d written it off as a client of Robert’s, a coworker, a name on a form. I’d filed it. I’m good continue reading …