He rubbed his forehead. “House stuff. Utilities. I move money sometimes. It’ll come back.”

I knew then that pushing harder would only build silence between us. So I waited.

A week later, the batteries in the remote died. I went to Troy’s desk to look for replacements.

That’s when I found the receipts.

A tidy stack of hotel bills tucked beneath old envelopes.

At first, I wasn’t alarmed. Troy traveled occasionally. Then I saw the location.

Massachusetts.

Every receipt was from the same hotel.
The same room number.

Month after month.

I sat on the edge of the bed until my hands went numb.

There were eleven receipts.

Eleven trips he never mentioned.

I called the hotel, my voice steady despite the shaking in my hands.

“I’m calling for Mr. Troy,” I said. “I need to reserve his usual room.”

The concierge didn’t hesitate.
“He’s a regular. That room is practically his. When should we expect him?”

I ended the call barely able to breathe.

When Troy came home the next evening, I was waiting at the kitchen table with the receipts laid out.

He froze in the doorway.

“What is this?” I asked.

He glanced down, then away.
“It’s not what you think.”

“Then tell me what it is.”

He stiffened. “I’m not doing this. You’re making it into something it’s not.”

“Money is missing. You’ve been going to that hotel for months. You’re lying,” I said. “About what?”

“You’re supposed to trust me.”

“I did trust you,” I replied. “But you won’t explain anything.”

He shut down completely.

That night, I slept in the guest room. The next morning, I asked again. He still refused.

“I can’t live inside a lie,” I told him. “I can’t pretend I don’t see this.”

He nodded once. “I thought you’d say that.”