She immediately looked concerned.
“What happened?”
“Can I come in?”
She stepped aside.
The house smelled like lemon cleaner and cinnamon tea.
Nothing had changed.
Her shoes were lined neatly beside the door. A stack of library books sat on the hallway table. The ceramic owl Lily had painted for her last Christmas still occupied the windowsill.
Ordinary things.
Safe things.
I suddenly hated myself for bringing suspicion into that room.
Mom followed me into the kitchen.
“Are the kids all right?”
“They’re with my friend Claire.”
“And you?”
I set my handbag on the chair.
“I need to ask you something.”
She removed her gloves slowly.
“All right.”
“Has Ethan been giving you money?”
Her expression changed.
Not shock.
Not confusion.
Something quieter.
Something worse.
She looked away.
My stomach dropped.
“Oh my God.”
“Rachel—”
“How much?”
She sat at the table.
I remained standing.
“How much money has my husband been giving you?”
“He hasn’t been giving it to me.”
“The bank records say otherwise.”
Her eyes snapped toward mine.
“What bank records?”
“Mom.”
She looked suddenly older.
“Sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit down.”
“Please.”
Something in her voice made me obey.
She folded her hands.
“About four years ago, Ethan came to see me.”
“Why?”
“He said he was worried about you.”
I stared.
“Worried about me?”
“He said you were working too much. Traveling constantly. He said the stress was affecting your sleep.”
“That part was true.”
“Yes.”
“But what does that have to do with money?”
“He asked whether I would let him use an old savings account in my name.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
“For what?”
“He told me he wanted to move small amounts somewhere you wouldn’t see them.”
