Chapter 2 - THE BILL
At eight the next morning, Harrison put the burned handbag on my kitchen table.
Soot marked the place where I usually set my toast.
“You owe her an apology and twenty-five hundred dollars.”
I took a slow sip of coffee.
“No.”
Sloan stood behind him with folded arms.
“You destroyed my property.”
“Yes,” I said.
“And you destroyed my cake.”
“It was an accident.”
“Then you need to work on your smile.”
Harrison pushed the bag closer.
“Can you hear yourself?”
“Perfectly. It’s a pleasant change.”
His face tightened.
For years, I had softened every hard conversation before he had to feel it.
A check after a late payment.
Dinner after an argument.
An apology when his father died and I could not make that better, either.
Now he waited for the familiar surrender.
I carried my cup upstairs.
By noon, every bottle, brush, and expensive little jar Sloan had left in my bathroom sat inside a cardboard box outside their bedroom.
A locksmith installed deadbolts on my bedroom and the small office where I kept financial records.
I left their room and the shared spaces alone.
Sloan watched from the stairs.
“This is childish.”
“No. Childish was hoping you’d notice I lived here.”
That evening, she pulled open the refrigerator.
“What are we supposed to eat?”
“Whatever you buy.”
“There’s nothing ready.”
“Harrison is thirty-five. Between the two of you, I’m sure dinner is possible.”
My son came into the hallway as I locked my office.
His eyes settled on the key.
“Why that room?”
“Because it’s mine.”
“You’re treating us like strangers.”
“Strangers usually ask before taking things.”
He flinched, so slightly I nearly missed it.
Three days later, I went to the bank.
I had postponed my usual statement review during the birthday preparations, and the paper statements had stopped arriving months earlier.
Harrison said the bank was cutting back on mail.
I had believed him.
The woman behind the desk printed a transaction history.
Her nameplate said MARISOL.
I watched her expression change as I circled charges I did not recognize.
A spa.
A restaurant.
A designer store.
Another spa.
She turned the final page toward me.
The withdrawals and purchases added up to $17,840.
“That can’t be right,” I whispered.
Marisol lowered her voice.
“Who else can get into this account?”
May you like
I looked at the amount again.
“My son.”
