“Did you move money out of checking?” I asked.

He didn’t take his eyes off the screen.
“I paid some bills.”

“How much?”

“A few thousand. It balances out.”

“Where did it go?” I asked, rotating the screen toward him. “This isn’t small.”

He rubbed his forehead. “House stuff. Utilities. I move money sometimes. It’ll come back.”

I knew then that pushing harder would only build silence between us. So I waited.

A week later, the batteries in the remote died. I went to Troy’s desk to look for replacements.

That’s when I found the receipts.

A tidy stack of hotel bills tucked beneath old envelopes.

At first, I wasn’t alarmed. Troy traveled occasionally. Then I saw the location.

Massachusetts.

Every receipt was from the same hotel.
The same room number.