18
The next morning at nine o’clock on the dot, Paul rang his mother’s solicitor. He’d tossed back and forth last night, barely sleeping. He’d even murmured a prayer that he’d find the right bank, that there’d be a safe deposit box, and that he’d be able to look inside.
The previous evening, once he’d loaded Wendy, the children, and some of the things they’d chosen in their car, he’d hurried back into the house to look at the things in the box he’d cleared out of his mother’s desk. It was most likely the safe deposit box would be at his mother’s bank.
The bank hadn’t admitted his mother had rented a box, but they’d told him what proof of identity to bring with him. When he said he didn’t live in Canberra, they’d squeezed him in for a two o’clock appointment.
The solicitor promised him
