I stared at the black numbers printed on the top sheet. The forty-one thousand dollars from the sale of my little bungalow had been deposited into our joint account only three months ago. Now, the final balance on the page read zero.
“The roof did not cost forty-one thousand dollars, Laura,” I said. My voice was quiet, but it did not shake.
“We had dry rot in the rafters,” Laura said, her words clipped and fast. “Mark did not want to worry you with the details, but the entire support system had to be replaced.”
I twisted my gold wedding ring around my finger, the metal cool against my skin. Mark had never mentioned dry rot to me, and he was a construction manager who noticed every loose nail in the county.
“I would like to see the contractor receipts,” I said.
Laura snatched the bank statements off the table and slid them back into her leather briefcase. “I have a conference call in ten minutes, and the probate lawyer needs these files by Friday.”
I decided to walk to the bank as soon as her car pulled out of the driveway.
