The total came to four hundred and eighty dollars. It was registered under Mark’s name, with a check-in time of three in the afternoon on a day he told me he was pulling a double shift at the logistics office.
My thumb ran over the thermal paper, feeling the slight waxy texture. The charges included two entrees from the room service menu.
There was no client name listed on the bill.
I stood there for a long time, holding the slip toward the light of the chandelier.
The garage door creaked open, and Mark’s footsteps sounded in the kitchen.
I walked into the kitchen with the receipt held flat between my fingers. Mark was standing by the sink, rinsing a glass under the faucet.
“You said you were working late last Friday,” I said, setting the slip on the laminate counter between us.
He did not look at the paper immediately. He turned off the tap and wiped his hands on a dishtowel, his fingers lingering on the fabric.
“I was hosting a regional logistics client,” he said. His voice had a slight hesitation, and he cleared his throat.
