He had spent forty-eight dollars and twelve cents on premium fuel, paid with our joint Visa card.
I folded the receipt into a small, tight square and slipped it into my pocket. The paper felt like a physical weight against my thigh as I locked the car and walked back to the house.
The bedroom was dim when I went upstairs. Jason was already asleep, his breathing slow and heavy, his back turned toward my side of the bed.
I sat at the small writing desk in the corner, keeping the small desk lamp on its lowest setting.
I opened the bottom drawer and reached under a stack of old stationery to find the blue leather-bound journal I had bought three years ago. I had intended to use it for garden planning, but the pages had remained entirely empty until now.
With a black ballpoint pen, I carefully copied the details from the Mobil receipt.
I wrote the date, the exact time, the location, and the amount charged to our joint account.
My pen made a soft, scratching sound against the thick paper.
I paused, my hand hovering over the page. I needed to open the glovebox next. There were secondary utility bills in there that I had seen briefly weeks ago, bills that did not belong to our Maple Street home. Whose name was on those secondary utility bills found in the glovebox?
I heard a sudden shift in the blankets behind me.
Jason rolled over, his face catching the faint light from the desk lamp. His eyes were half-open, blinking against the shadow.
“Claire?” he muttered, his voice thick with sleep. “What are you doing over there?”
“Just finishing some project notes for work,” I said, my voice measured and slow.
“Come to bed. You’re keeping me awake.” He checked his gold wristwatch, which he never took off, even to sleep.
I closed the blue journal quietly and stood up. As I walked to the side of the bed, I slid the book under the heavy edge of the mattress, pushing it deep between the box spring and the frame until it was completely hidden.
“I’m coming,” I said.
