“I set up the monthly transfer four years ago,” I said, my voice dropping into the precise, quiet tone I used when I was writing copy under a tight deadline. “It goes directly into the household account on the first of every month.”
“Well, it is not showing up where it matters,” Jason said, finally turning to face me. “Melissa says we are paying for all of your extra water usage just to keep your room cool with that window unit.”
“The window unit has been unplugged since September,” I said.
“Tell that to the water company,” Jason said, dropping the cigarette butt and crushing it under his heavy boot. “We are the ones getting the notices, Claire. Not you.”
“What notices?” I asked.
He did not answer. He pulled his keys out of his pocket, tapped them against his thigh once, and walked past me into the kitchen, leaving the smell of tobacco smoke hanging in the cold night air.
My bedroom was the smallest room in the ranch house, containing only a single bed, a maple dresser, and a small writing desk. I sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled my phone from my pocket.
The screen was bright in the dark room, casting a pale blue light across the ceiling. I opened the banking application and typed in my passcode, waiting for the circular icon to stop spinning.
My personal savings account balance was seven hundred and twelve dollars, the remainder of what I had managed to keep after four years of paying the mortgage.
I scrolled down to the recurring transactions list, finding the line item marked Household Account Transfer.
Every single month for forty-eight months, the sum of three thousand two hundred dollars had left my account on the first day of the month.
I tapped the transaction for October first.
The screen displayed a green checkmark next to the word Cleared.
Below it, the routing number and the account number matched the ones printed on my father’s old checkbook exactly.
