It was a duplicate receipt from a jeweler on Michigan Avenue, dated three weeks ago.
The total at the bottom was five thousand dollars.
The name on the card used for payment was Ethan Herrera.
“He told me they were buying simple silver bands,” I said, my thumb rubbing the gold wedding ring on my right hand.
Martha adjusted her glasses and peered at the paper in the morning light. “This says a platinum band with channel-set diamonds.”
“The billing address is his office,” I said.
“Maybe Ashley’s mother paid him back for it,” Martha said, reaching for another blanket.
I did not answer her.
Ethan had sat at my kitchen table two days ago, his face pale as he begged for nineteen thousand dollars to save the wedding from cancellation.
He had sworn that every penny of his own savings was already gone.
Now, the receipt in my hand proved he had spent a small fortune on a single piece of jewelry.
The drive to the Willow Creek Country Club took twenty minutes through the grey autumn afternoon.
