Rebecca stared at her.
No answer came.
Daniel turned back toward his wife.
His voice was lower now.
“Say it.”
Rebecca frowned.
“Say what?”
“Look at me and say you did not use our children’s money for this house.”
His hand swept toward the kitchen.
Rebecca opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
I could hear the refrigerator humming behind us.
I could hear Lily breathing.
I could hear my own heartbeat.
Daniel waited.
“Rebecca.”
Still nothing.
And suddenly I was no longer thinking about the slap.
I was thinking about Robert.
About a hospital room six years earlier.
About my husband’s thin hand wrapped around mine.
About the grandchildren’s photographs sitting beside his bed.
Ethan grinning without his front teeth.
Lily wearing a princess crown.
Robert had always joked that he wanted his grandchildren to graduate owing nothing except thank-you notes.
After he died, I kept contributing whenever I could.
It was one of the last promises I could still keep for both of us.
Birthdays.
Christmas.
Tax refunds.
A little extra after selling his old fishing boat.
Money from an insurance payment I didn’t need.
I wasn’t wealthy.
Neither was Robert.
Every deposit represented something we had chosen not to spend on ourselves.
And now I was standing inside a kitchen that might have been built with those choices.
Daniel pulled out a chair.
“Sit down.”
Rebecca didn’t.
“Open the accounts.”
“No.”
“Open them.”
“You’re treating me like a criminal.”
“Nobody used that word.”
“You don’t have to!”
She pointed at me.
“She’s been investigating me behind my back.”
“I called because Ethan is applying to colleges,” I said. “I wanted to understand how the money would be accessed once tuition bills arrived.”
Rebecca’s face went pale.
That was the moment Daniel really understood that I had not accidentally stumbled onto one suspicious transaction.
I had been looking for three weeks.
The financial representative had been careful with me.
Professional.
Almost too careful.
“You may want to speak directly with the current custodian regarding withdrawals.”
Withdrawals.
That word had followed me home.
I requested every historical record I was still permitted to receive.
The packet was incomplete.
But it showed enough.
More than enough.
For two days, I tried to invent innocent explanations.
Maybe the merchant names were misleading.
Maybe legitimate educational expenses were processed strangely.
Maybe accounts had been reorganized.
Maybe I misunderstood.
Then I recognized the hotel.
Then the interior company.
Then Velvet Row.
I called Daniel.
Now he sat inside the kitchen and looked at his wife.
“How much is actually left?”
Rebecca wrapped her arms around herself.
“There is money left.”
