Chương 13
“Yes.”
“Does that line up with the records?”
“I made him show me.”
Her voice cracked.
“Mostly.”
Mostly was a dangerous word.
“What doesn’t?”
“There’s another transfer.”
“From where?”
“Our joint savings.”
“How much?”
“Five thousand.”
I pressed my fingers against my temple.
“When?”
“August.”
“Where did it go?”
“Brokerage account.”
“And?”
“Gone.”
I breathed out slowly.
“Anything else?”
“He says no.”
“You believe him?”
“No.”
That answer came fast.
“What did he say when you asked about the kids’ money?”
“He said he was going to put it back.”
Of course he did.
“He said once he got another job, he’d replace it.”
“Did he tell you before taking it?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you afterward?”
“No.”
“Then how were you supposed to know it needed replacing?”
Melissa made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
“Exactly.”
I heard a door close on her end.
“Where are you?”
“Outside.”
“Outside Aaron’s?”
“In the car.”
“Where’s Jason?”
“Inside.”
“And the kids?”
“Watching a movie.”
“Good.”
She sniffed.
“He keeps saying he was trying to save us.”
That sentence hit a nerve because I had heard versions of it all my life.
People causing damage while insisting the damage was evidence of effort.
“What do you think?”
“I think he was scared.”
“That’s not the same question.”
“I know.”
She took a shaky breath.
“I think at first he was trying to save us.”
“And later?”
“I think he was trying to undo what he’d already done.”
That sounded right.
Losses could become traps when shame made stopping feel worse than continuing.
“Did he apologize?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“What do you mean?”
“What did he actually say?”
Melissa was silent for several seconds.
“He said, ‘I’m sorry you found out this way.’”
I closed my eyes.
“That’s not an apology.”
“I know.”
“He’s sorry you found out.”
“I know.”
“And he’s probably terrified.”
“I know that too.”
Cars passed in the background.
Rain ticked faintly against her windshield.
“I slapped him,” she said.
I sat up.
“What?”
“When he admitted the kids’ money.”
“Melissa.”
“I know.”
“Are you safe?”
“Yes.”
“Is he?”
“Yes.”
“Did the kids see?”
“No.”
“Did Aaron?”
“No.”
I exhaled.
“Don’t do that again.”
“I know.”
Her voice sharpened.
“I said I know.”
“All right.”
“I’m not proud of it.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You were thinking it.”
“No.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
We sat in silence through the phone.
Then she said, “He cried.”
I had almost never seen Jason cry.
Not at his father’s funeral.
Not when Sophie broke her arm.
Not even when his mother moved to Arizona and he pretended not to care.
“What did he say?”
“That he didn’t know how to tell me.”
“And?”
“That every time he looked at the numbers, he thought if he could just make one good trade, he could fix enough that I’d never have to know.”
The logic was terrible.
The fear beneath it was painfully recognizable.
“He kept thinking he could erase the first mistake.”
“Yes.”
Melissa sniffed again.
“And now I don’t know what’s true anymore.”
“That’s the bigger problem.”
“I thought the bigger problem was forty-seven thousand dollars.”
“Also a large problem.”
She laughed despite herself.
It came out broken.
“God, I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Currently I hate your tone.”
“That I believe.”
The laugh faded.
“What do I do?”
I almost answered immediately.
Leave him.
Freeze accounts.
Call Mom.
Call a lawyer.
Make a list.
I stopped myself.
It was not my marriage.
And Melissa had spent the previous day deciding what I should do with my home.
I was not going to become her in reverse.
“You decide what you need to know before you decide what happens next.”
“That sounds annoyingly reasonable.”
“I learned from Leah.”
“Terrifying.”
“Get copies of every account statement you can access.”
“Okay.”
“Credit cards.”
“Okay.”
“Loans.”
“Okay.”
“Bank accounts.”
“Okay.”
“Trading accounts.”
“Fine.”
“And both of you need credit reports.”
“Why both?”
“In case there are accounts you forgot about or don’t recognize.”
She went quiet.
“That possibility hadn’t occurred to me.”
“I’m not saying there are.”
“I know.”
“But if trust is damaged, guessing will make it worse.”
“Spreadsheet.”
“Definitely spreadsheet.”
“God.”
I heard her take another breath.
“What if there’s more?”
“Then you’ll know more.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It isn’t supposed to be.”
“What if it’s really bad?”
“Then you make decisions based on reality instead of fear.”
“I hate reality.”
“That makes two of us.”
My phone buzzed against my ear with another incoming call.
Mom.
I ignored it.
Melissa heard the tone.
“Is that her?”
“Yes.”
“She called me six times.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That we’re exhausted.”
“Which is true.”
“She wants us at her house tomorrow.”
I frowned.
“All six of you?”
“Apparently her house became suitable.”
I laughed.
Melissa did too.
For a few seconds, we sounded like sisters rather than opposing witnesses.
Then she said, “Emily?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m still angry at you.”
“I know.”
“And embarrassed.”
“I know.”
“And Sophie thinks I lied to her.”
“You did.”
“Ouch.”
“You did.”
“I know.”
Her voice went quiet.
“But I think if you had let us move in, I would have kept lying.”
The sentence settled heavily between us.
“To me?”
“To everybody.”
She swallowed.
“I would have told myself I just needed a month.”
“And then?”
“Then another month.”
I looked around the condo.
The spare room was still empty.
For the first time since this began, emptiness did not feel selfish.
It felt like the one thing that had forced the truth into daylight.
Melissa said, “I’m going inside.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t tell Mom tonight.”
“I won’t.”
“Tomorrow?”
“We’ll talk tomorrow.”
She groaned.
“You sound exactly like me.”
That was disturbing enough to make us both laugh again.
After we hung up, I stood at the kitchen counter and drank a glass of water.
Then I noticed an envelope pushed beneath my front door.
May you like
For one stupid second, I imagined legal papers.
Instead it was a handwritten note on ordinary white printer paper.
