Chương 8
“I don’t know.”
Tony leaned toward the phone.
“Barron, this is Tony Morgan.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
“You should assume all communications regarding marital finances are being preserved.”
“Stay out of my marriage.”
Tony’s voice remained mild.
“I intend to stay very much inside the legal part of it.”
Barron hung up.
I stared at the ended-call screen.
My mother said, “That went well.”
Tony looked at her.
“Your standards are disturbing.”
We returned to the hotel around noon.
There were three missed calls from Celina by then.
Barron’s mother rarely called me directly.
She preferred family group texts decorated with unnecessary exclamation points.
When the fourth call came, I answered.
Celina started crying before I finished saying hello.
“What have you done?”
I sat down on the edge of the bed.
Tony had gone back to his office.
My mother was in the bathroom washing her blouse in the sink because she refused to pay the hotel laundry charge.
“What did Barron tell you?”
“He said you left him.”
“He told me to leave.”
“He didn’t mean it.”
“He hit my mother.”
Celina stopped crying.
Only for a second.
Then she said, “He said she attacked him.”
“She did not.”
“He has scratches.”
I frowned.
“Where?”
“On his arm.”
My mother came out of the bathroom holding the wet blouse.
She saw my expression.
I put the call on speaker.
“Celina,” my mother said, “I grabbed his forearm when he picked up my vase.”
Celina’s voice hardened.
“So you did put your hands on him.”
“I did.”
“And now everyone is acting like my son just attacked an old woman for no reason.”
My mother looked at me.
She hated being called old almost as much as she hated medical offices.
“I am sixty-seven, not embalmed.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“No.”
Mom draped the blouse over the back of a chair.
“It isn’t.”
Celina sniffed.
“Barron has been under enormous pressure.”
“What pressure?” I asked.
She hesitated.
There it was again.
That tiny pause.
The one people made when deciding whether protecting someone required another lie.
“Work.”
“What about work?”
“You know how his job is.”
Barron managed regional accounts for a medical equipment distributor.
He complained about quarterly targets, incompetent executives, and clients who treated weekends as business days.
But he had never mentioned anything serious.
“Celina, what happened at work?”
“I don’t know details.”
“Then what pressure are you talking about?”
“He’s been trying to help everyone.”
“Everyone who?”
Another pause.
My mother sat down slowly.
Celina said, “Bruno.”
“I know about Bruno.”
“And Dominic.”
I looked at my mother.
“Who is Dominic?”
Celina sounded surprised.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
The room suddenly felt too warm.
“He’s Barron’s cousin.”
“I know who Dominic is.”
I had met him twice.
He sold commercial real estate in Providence and spent both occasions talking about himself.
“What does he have to do with our money?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“You already did.”
Celina started crying again.
“I can’t be in the middle of this.”
“You called me.”
“I thought you would listen.”
“I am listening.”
“No, you’re building a case.”
The accusation struck strangely because it was partly true.
Evidence had become the language of the day.
Photographs.
Statements.
Screenshots.
Dates.
As though seven years of marriage had transformed overnight into something requiring exhibits.
“Did Barron give Dominic money?”
Celina did not answer.
“Celina.”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he tell you he did?”
“I said I don’t know.”
Then she hung up.
My mother looked at the phone.
“She knows.”
“Yes.”
“Or thinks she knows.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“Tony is infecting you.”
“He is sensible.”
“You called him irritating an hour ago.”
“People can be two things.”
She went back to arranging her damp blouse.
I called Tony.
He answered with, “Please tell me you didn’t call Barron again.”
“Celina called me.”
“That was not the question.”
“She mentioned Dominic.”
There was a pause.
“Dominic who?”
“Barron’s cousin.”
I gave him the last name.
“I’ll see what’s publicly available.”
“Celina implied Barron gave him money.”
“Implied is not proof.”
“I know.”
“I’m glad something I’ve said survived.”
My mother called from across the room, “She’s learning.”
Tony heard her.
“Good.”
He became serious again.
“Do you still have access to your tax returns?”
“Yes.”
“Get the last three years.”
“Why?”
“Because before we invent explanations, I want a clean picture of your household finances.”
I opened my laptop.
Barron and I kept tax documents in a shared cloud folder.
The files were still there.
So were mortgage statements, insurance records, and a spreadsheet Barron had created for annual budgeting.
I opened it.
For years, I had teased him about the spreadsheet because he color-coded utilities.
Green for fixed.
Yellow for variable.
Red for what he called stupid spending.
Takeout usually ended up red.
My yoga membership had somehow been yellow.
His car payment was green.
I scrolled through the tabs.
January.
February.
March.
April.
May.
June.
Something changed in June.
A new line appeared beneath household expenses.
Private investment.
$9,500.
I leaned closer.
July contained the same category.
$14,000.
Then another entry.
$21,000.
The amounts matched the first three transfers.
“Tony.”
“I’m here.”
“He recorded them.”
“As what?”
“Private investment.”
My mother came closer.
“What investment?”
“I don’t know.”
I clicked into the cell.
No note.
No hyperlink.
No explanation.
Then I noticed a hidden tab at the bottom.
It was barely visible between two others.
I unhid it.
A list appeared.
Dates.
Amounts.
Initials.
B.R.
D.C.
B.R.
D.C.
And one line that made me stop.
A.R.
$38,000.
My initials.
Tony asked, “What do you see?”
“My name.”
“What?”
“There’s an entry with my initials for thirty-eight thousand dollars.”
My mother leaned over my shoulder.
The date beside it was from five months earlier.
Before she moved in.
Before Barron complained about her.
Before the first transfer left our account.
I searched my memory for any investment discussion involving that amount.
May you like
There was none.
“What does the column header say?” Tony asked.
