“Melissa is in a hard spot,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Her landlord is raising the rent, and she has the kids to think about.”
“Melissa has a job,” I said. “And we have a mortgage that comes directly out of my personal checking account.”
He did not look at the brass key. He slipped his arms into his jacket sleeves, his shoulders hunched as if he were trying to dodge a blow.
“We need to help her, Nora,” he said, walking past me toward the garage door. “She is my sister.”
“And I am your wife,” I said.
“You are being difficult about this,” he said, his hand resting on the brass doorknob that led to the garage. “It is only temporary until she gets on her feet.”
“Melissa’s lease is ending on November first, Eric,” I said, holding the key tighter. “That is not temporary. That is a permanent move.”
He did not answer. The garage door opened with a slow, grinding groan, and he stepped through the threshold without looking back.
The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving me standing in the dim hallway with the brass key cold against my palm.
I stood there for a full minute, listening to the rumble of his car engine starting on the other side of the drywall, the sound vibrating through the floorboards.
By nine o’clock, the heat in the county payroll office was already dry and stuffy. I sat in my cubicle, surrounded by the quiet hum of computer fans and the smell of stale breakroom coffee that someone had burnt at eight-thirty.
My job as a payroll administrator required an absolute focus on details, on tracking every decimal and verifying every signature before the direct deposits went out. I was good at it because I liked order, and I liked knowing that every number had a verifiable source.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I logged into the Wake County public records portal, my screen reflecting the pale beige of my cubicle walls.
I entered our address on Oak Ridge Road, clicking through the legal history of the red-brick colonial we had shared for nine years.
