The pine trees blurred past the window.

I spent the first hour on my phone, searching the public records database I still had access to through my old consulting network.

I looked up “Margaret Mitchell.”

The official death certificate filed in Duval County twelve years ago listed her cause of death as cardiopulmonary arrest.

But when I dug deeper into the pension records, the payments didn’t stop.

They were routed to an account at a regional bank in Ocala.

The signature on the annual verification forms had changed slightly over the years.

The older signatures were shaky, but legible.

The recent ones were too clean, too precise.

They matched my mother’s handwriting.

“My mother was the one who signed,” I said aloud.

Claire glanced at me in the rearview mirror.

“Your mother always did what your father told her to do,” Claire said.

“That doesn’t make her innocent,” I said.

“No,” Claire agreed. “It makes her a co-conspirator.”

We stopped at a service station near Gainesville to feed Tommy and stretch my legs.

My back ached from sitting, and the incision area was throbbing.