“How pregnant is she?” I asked.
Rebecca paused. “Do you know?”
“No. Cynthia said the baby would get its own room in a year.”
“Then we don’t know yet.”
I looked at the folder. “Why move the money out and put it back?”
“Testing access. Creating records. Maybe proving to someone that funds existed. Maybe borrowing temporarily.”
“Borrowing from me.”
Rebecca’s face did not change. “Yes.”
After she left, I finally showered.
I stood under hot water until my skin turned pink, watching glitter from my wedding makeup circle the drain. I had thought I would wake up that morning beside my husband in a hotel suite overlooking the bay. Instead, I washed dust from my hair in my father’s house while attorneys traced money I had trusted to a man who called me plain rice.
My sadness did not arrive as one storm. It came in small, humiliating waves.
