“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.
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.”
