I checked the digital screen again, looking for the transaction history, but the online portal required a secondary security code that was sent directly to Troy’s mobile phone.
I closed the laptop half an inch, then opened it again.
At seven o’clock, the television in the living room was broadcasting the evening news. Troy sat in the brown leather recliner, the blue light from the screen reflecting off his glasses.
He had his slippers on, his ankles pale against the dark wool. He looked smaller in the chair than he used to, his flannel shirt hanging loose around his shoulders.
“Troy,” I said, standing near the entry mat.
He did not turn his head, his eyes remaining fixed on a segment about local highway construction.
“Troy, I was online looking at the savings account,” I said, my voice flat and even. “The balance is lower than it should be.”
He reached down and rubbed his right wrist, his thumb pressing hard into the joint. He did not look at me.
