Pelham Savings was a bank that still had real tellers and a marble counter and a sign from the nineties that said MEMBER FDIC in gold letters. I got there at nine fifteen on a Tuesday. I wore my gray coat and the wedding ring I still hadn't taken off, because I knew it would make the teller treat me like a widow instead of a suspect.
The woman behind the counter checked my ID against the account, then checked it again, then looked at the key, then looked at me.
"This box is in the name Ashford," she said. "Joint."
"Joint with whom?"
"Marcus Ashford and Diana Ashford."
The room tilted, one degree. Of course. Of course. Marcus put his mother on everything. I held my expression still and said, "My husband's deceased. I have the death certificate and the letters testamentary."
She looked
