I turned my plain silver engagement ring around my finger, once, twice, until the metal bit into my skin. Caleb tapped his knuckles against the wooden back of my chair, a slow, hollow sound that seemed to pace the ticking of the wall clock.
“Is this some kind of mistake?” he asked.
“My father does not make mistakes with ledgers,” I said.
I scrolled back to the top of the first page to read the sender address again. It was from his direct work email, sent at four past four in the morning. My mother was copied on the message, her personal email address sitting quietly below his on the line.
“He itemized everything, Caleb. Look at the dates.”
The first line on the list was from five years ago, a deposit for my college apartment that he had claimed was a gift at the time. Below that were charges for dental work, car insurance payments from my senior year, and even a plane ticket to visit my grandmother in Florida.
“We need to call him right now,” Caleb said.
His voice had a dry directness that usually calmed me, but my fingers remained cold against the keys. I could see the reflection of my own face in the glossy screen, pale and small against the white background of the PDF.
“He won’t answer,” I said. “He never answers when he wants to make a point.”
“Then we call your mother,” Caleb said. He pulled out the chair next to me and sat down, his eyes still fixed on the screen. He tapped his knuckles against the edge of the Formica. “She will know why he is using this specific bank form.”
“She will only say what he tells her to say,” I said.
“Let her say it anyway,” Caleb replied. He pointed at the screen, his finger hovering near the bottom of the page. “Look at the routing number at the bottom of the invoice. That is not his usual personal account.”
