When Troy came home the next evening, I was waiting at the kitchen table with the receipts. He stopped dead in his tracks in the doorway, still holding the keys.
“What is it?” I asked him.
I was waiting at the kitchen table with the receipts.
He looked at the paper, then looked at me.
“It’s not what you think.”
“So tell me what it is.”
He stood there, jaw clenched, shoulders stiff, staring at the receipts as if they were something I had set up to trap him.
“I don’t do that,” he finally said. “You’re exaggerating.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Am I exaggerating?” My voice rose. “Troy, the money has disappeared from our account, and you’ve visited that hotel eleven times in the last few months without telling me. You’re lying about something. What is it?”
“You’re supposed to trust me.”
“I trusted you. That’s true, but what you’re doing now doesn’t convince me.”
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