“I signed the back of every ticket the minute I bought it,” I told Denise. “Full name. Every Friday for twenty-one years. My mother taught me that a signed ticket belongs to the person who signed it.” Denise let out a long breath. “That’s correct, ma’am. Legally, this ticket is yours. And the gas station’s camera will show who bought it.”

Then her voice changed. “Mrs. Rourke, there’s something else you should know before you come in. When your husband filled out the claim form, he told our staff his wife had recently passed away, and that you had signed it before you died.” I set my iced tea down very slowly. Behind her, Ron had stopped shouting. “Ma’am,” Denise said quietly, “security is holding him right now.”