Chương 8
"There are eight regular bowls."
He shrugged.
"This one was closer."
I took off my coat.
"How was school?"
"Fine."
"That means terrible or boring."
"Boring."
"Good."
He looked at me more carefully.
"You saw Dad."
"Yes."
"What did he say?"
"Things I needed to hear."
"That sounds like lawyer language."
"It's mother language."
He rolled his eyes.
For the first time in two days, it felt almost normal.
Then his expression changed.
"Is he coming home?"
"Not tonight."
Ethan nodded and returned to the cereal.
"I've got a calculus test Friday."
"Do you need help?"
"From you?"
"I took calculus."
"In 2002."
"Mathematics did not reinvent derivatives."
He almost smiled.
"Debatable."
That small exchange stayed with me longer than Mark's confession.
It reminded me that our house still contained people who needed lunches, clean towels, rides, permission slips, and someone willing to argue about calculus.
At five thirty, Sophie came home from a friend's house.
She hugged me without taking off her backpack.
"Did you talk to Dad?"
"Yes."
"Is he coming back?"
"Not tonight."
Her shoulders dropped with an emotion I could not read.
Relief, maybe.
Then guilt about the relief.
"Can I still go to Audrey's Christmas thing Saturday?"
"Of course."
She nodded.
"Even if things are weird?"
"Things are allowed to be weird without canceling your life."
She looked at me for a moment.
"Okay."
That night, after the kids went upstairs, I opened the financial folder we kept in the small cabinet beside the desk.
There were tax returns, insurance statements, old mortgage papers, and college savings documents.
Most of it was exactly where it should have been.
That almost made me feel foolish.
I logged into our joint checking and savings accounts.
No strange withdrawals.
No unexplained transfers.
I checked the credit cards.
Nothing obvious.
Then I tried the brokerage account.
My password failed.
I tried again.
Still wrong.
I used the password reset link.
The site asked where to send the verification code.
Only the final four digits of the phone number appeared.
They were not mine.
They were not Mark's personal number either.
I stared at them.
Then I remembered the separate work cell he carried during quarterly travel.
I texted him.
Did you change the brokerage login?
The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.
Then disappeared.
Then returned.
I waited.
Finally, his message came.
Security update from work phone.
I typed back.
Why was my number removed?
It wasn't removed.
The system only shows one number.
Can I access the account?
Yes.
Send me the code.
He did not answer.
I waited two minutes.
Then five.
At eight fourteen, my phone rang.
Mark.
I answered.
"Why can't I access our brokerage account?"
"You can."
"I just told you I can't."
"It's probably a login issue."
"Then send the code."
Silence.
"Mark."
"I don't have that phone with me."
"Where is it?"
"At the office."
"Fine."
"No."
His voice sharpened.
"Laura, it is almost eight thirty."
"So?"
"I can't get into the building without my badge."
"You have your badge."
Another pause.
Too many pauses.
"Where are you?"
"At the hotel."
"Then why did you say you couldn't get into the building?"
He exhaled.
"I mean I don't want to drive all the way back."
"Send me a current brokerage statement."
"I don't have one."
"Download it."
"I'm on my phone."
"The app exists."
"What exactly are you accusing me of?"
"I haven't accused you of anything."
"It feels like you are."
"Then show me the account."
He went quiet.
I could hear a television in the background.
A man's voice.
Then laughter.
"Tomorrow," Mark said.
"No."
"Laura."
"No more tomorrow."
The television sound disappeared, probably muted.
I stood from the desk.
"What is in that account?"
"Nothing is in it."
The wording stopped me.
Not nothing unusual.
Not nothing changed.
Nothing is in it.
"What did you do?"
He breathed into the phone.
"Mark."
"I moved some money."
My hand tightened around the edge of the desk.
"How much?"
"It's still ours."
"How much?"
"I didn't spend it."
"How much?"
He did not answer quickly enough.
My heartbeat began to climb.
"Mark."
"One hundred and eighty thousand."
I sat down.
For several seconds, the room had no edges.
"Where is it?"
"In another account."
"Whose?"
"Mine."
I closed my eyes.
"You transferred one hundred and eighty thousand dollars out of our brokerage account."
"It's not gone."
"When?"
"Over a few months."
"Why?"
"I needed liquidity."
"For what?"
"Laura, listen."
"For what?"
His voice dropped.
"To qualify for the house financing."
I looked at the family photograph sitting beside the computer.
It had been taken two Christmases earlier.
All four of us were in it.
My hand rested on Mark's chest.
His arm was around Sophie.
Ethan was refusing to smile properly.
"You moved our money into an account I can't access so you could qualify to keep the house after pushing me out of it."
"That's not what happened."
"It is exactly what happened."
"I was trying to structure the buyout."
"With my money."
"Our money."
There was bitterness in his correction now.
I almost admired the nerve of it.
"Send me the account statement."
"Tomorrow."
"Tonight."
"I can't."
"Why?"
Another silence.
This one was different.
Longer.
He was not deciding what to say.
He was deciding what I was allowed to know.
I felt something inside me settle.
"Who else is on the account?"
"No one."
"Then send the statement."
He said my name softly.
That was when I knew.
"Mark."
"It's not what you're thinking."
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
"Whose name is on the account with you?"
His answer came so quietly I nearly missed it.
"Rebecca's."
For several seconds, I could hear nothing except my own breathing and the faint buzz from the desk lamp.
"Say that again."
"Rebecca's name is on the account."
I stood so fast the chair rolled backward into the filing cabinet.
"Why?"
"It was temporary."
May you like
I laughed.
The sound came out thin and unpleasant.
