Month after month.

I sat on the edge of the bed until my hands went numb.

There were eleven receipts.

Eleven trips he never mentioned.

I called the hotel, my voice steady despite the shaking in my hands.

“I’m calling for Mr. Troy,” I said. “I need to reserve his usual room.”

The concierge didn’t hesitate.
“He’s a regular. That room is practically his. When should we expect him?”

I ended the call barely able to breathe.

When Troy came home the next evening, I was waiting at the kitchen table with the receipts laid out.

He froze in the doorway.

“What is this?” I asked.

He glanced down, then away.
“It’s not what you think.”

“Then tell me what it is.”

He stiffened. “I’m not doing this. You’re making it into something it’s not.”

“Money is missing. You’ve been going to that hotel for months. You’re lying,” I said. “About what?”

“You’re supposed to trust me.”