That night, I slid my laptop toward Troy while he was watching the news. “Did you move money out of checking?” He barely looked away from the TV. “I paid the bills.”
“How much?”
“A couple thousand. It evens out.”
“Where?” I turned the screen toward him. “Troy, this is a lot. Where is it all going?”
He rubbed his forehead, eyes still fixed on the television. “The usual. House stuff. Bills. I move money around sometimes. You know that. It’ll come back.”
I wanted to press him. But after a lifetime with this man, I knew pushing then would only build walls. So I waited.
A week later, the remote died in the middle of a show. I went to Troy’s desk looking for batteries. I opened a drawer and found a neat stack of hotel receipts tucked beneath old mail. Troy traveled to California sometimes, so I wasn’t alarmed—until I saw the hotel was in Massachusetts.
Every receipt was for the same hotel. The same room number. The dates went back months. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at them until my hands went numb. I tried to come up with a logical reason for him to be traveling to Massachusetts. I couldn’t think of one.
I counted them. Eleven receipts. Eleven trips he’d never mentioned. My chest tightened as I entered the hotel’s number into my phone.
“Good afternoon. How may I help you?”
“Hi,” I said. “I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Troy. I’m his new assistant. I need to book his usual room.”
“Of course,” the concierge replied without hesitation. “He’s a regular. That room is basically reserved for him. When would he like to check in?”
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