The kitchen felt too large once he was gone. I took the check and the blue passbook into the home office at the back of the house.
The home office smelled of cold dust and the cedar lining of the closet. Our old computer sat on the oak desk, its fan whirring like a small, tired engine as it woke up from its sleep mode.
I sat in the swivel chair and waited for the screen to clear. My plan was simple enough, as I wanted to transfer the eight hundred dollars from our checking to our high-yield savings account to keep the balances round.
I opened the browser and typed in the address for the Oak Ridge Savings Bank. The password was saved in the browser, a sequence of numbers we had used since we bought the house on Elm Street.
The main page loaded with its familiar green banner. I clicked on the tab for the joint savings account, expecting to see eighty-four thousand dollars and some change.
The number on the screen did not begin with an eight.
I adjusted my reading glasses and leaned closer to the monitor. The balance was fifty-two thousand dollars.
I sat very still, my hand resting on the plastic mouse. I clicked the refresh button, hoping the system was merely lagging or showing a temporary holding balance.
The screen blinked, but the numbers remained exactly the same.
Thirty-two thousand dollars was missing from the account.
I opened the desk drawer to look for the paper statement from September, but the drawer was locked. I gave the handle a small, firm tug, but the brass lock held fast.
I did not know where the key was. Troy usually kept his personal files in the lower cabinet, and we had never felt the need to lock things from each other in thirty-six years of marriage.
