Daniel’s fingernails tapped against the side of his glass, a quick, dry clicking sound that filled our small kitchen in Grand Rapids. He had the leather-bound mileage notebook open on the counter right next to his real estate brochures. The brochures were the new ones, printed on thick glossy paper that he often reminded me cost forty cents each to produce.
I stood by the cutting board, packing our lunches into the insulated bags we used every day. I twisted the plain silver band on my right index finger, moving it up and down against my knuckle as I watched him.
“Claire,” he said, his voice dropping into that soft, low register he always used when he was about to point out a mistake. “Did you take the bypass on your way back from the school board meeting on Thursday?”
“No,” I said, pausing before I spoke. “I took the usual route down Beltline.”
“Because the odometer on the sedan is showing forty-two thousand, eight hundred and ten miles,” he said, tapping his fingernails on the glass again. “But according to your log entry from Friday morning, it should only be forty-two thousand, six hundred and sixty.”
“I must have written it down wrong,” I said.
He looked up from the notebook, his eyes locking onto mine with a steady, quiet intensity that made me pull my hand away from my ring.
“You must have written the odometer reading down wrong last week,” he said.
“I am sure that is what happened,” I said.
“It is just that we have to be very precise with the tax write-offs this quarter,” he said, his tone perfectly even, almost sweet. “Every single mile counts when the market is this slow.”
He closed the notebook with a quiet slide of leather against the laminate counter and reached for his briefcase.
“I will double-check the dashboard before I leave for the office,” I said.
“Good,” he said, giving me a quick, dry kiss on the cheek. “We cannot afford any sloppy mistakes right now.”
He walked out to his car, leaving the kitchen smelling of his cologne and the cold autumn air that had slipped in through the side door.
The registrar’s office at the high school was always too warm in November, the old steam radiators clanking behind the gray metal filing cabinets. Martha, who had worked at the front desk for twelve years, was sitting across from me with a blue plastic folder containing the junior class activity fees. We were matching the receipts against the district bank ledger, trying to find a discrepancy of eighty-five dollars.
“They changed the online portal again,” Martha said, squinting at the computer screen. “Every time they update the software, three transactions just vanish into thin air.”
“Let me look at the paper copies,” I said, reaching for the physical ledger.
Before I could open the file, my phone buzzed on the desk right next to my coffee mug. It was encased in the bright orange silicone cover Daniel had bought for me on my last birthday, claiming it would make the phone easier to find in my purse.
The screen lit up with an automated alert from our local community bank.
I picked it up, my eyes scanning the short line of text.
“Everything all right?” Martha asked, her hand pausing over the budget sheets.
“I think so,” I said, my voice trailing off as I read the numbers again.
The message was an automated notification of a withdrawal. Twelve thousand dollars had been transferred out of our joint savings account at ten past eleven that morning.
“Is it the school account?” Martha asked.
“No,” I said, after a long pause. “It is personal.”
“Those bank texts are always getting delayed,” Martha said, shaking her head. “Last week I got one saying my electric bill was overdue when I paid it three weeks ago.”
I stared at the screen, my thumb resting on the orange edge of the case.
“I need to make a quick call,” I said.
