I had barely used it.
“Could somebody pretend to be me?”
I asked.
Walter looked serious.
“That is one of the possibilities the investigation needs to examine.”
I left the bank feeling sick.
By now I had three uncomfortable truths.
Dad’s money was missing.
A deed purported to transfer my house interest to Natalie.
And my name could have been used in financial instructions affecting my father’s property. None proved exactly who had done what.
But none felt accidental.
I called Natalie from the parking lot.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Are you coming home for dinner?”
“Yes.”
Pause.
“Why?”
“I found something in Dad’s records.”
“What?”
“March ninth.”
Silence.
“Grant, please.”
“Do you remember preparing paperwork that day?”
“I remember paperwork.”
“What kind?”
“Property paperwork.”
“Which property?” She exhaled.
“Come home.”
When I did, dinner was ready.
Natalie had made eggs and toast instead of the chicken from the previous night.
She had been too tired to cook.
That was unusual for her.
We sat.
She broke her toast into smaller pieces.
Then said:
“I want to explain something.”
I waited.
“Our finances haven’t been as comfortable as you think.”
My stomach tightened.
“How uncomfortable?”
“The home-equity line increased.”
“How much?”
She looked down.
“More than I wanted.” “Number, Natalie.”
She stared.
I waited.
“About thirty-eight thousand.”
I blinked.
“What?”
“Some expenses accumulated.”
“Which expenses?”
“Repairs.
My mother’s care.
Credit cards.”
“Your mother has been in assisted living for years.”
“Exactly.”
I stared at her.
“We agreed to contribute monthly.
Not borrow against the house without discussing it.”
She looked furious.
“You said you trusted me.” “I do.”
“Then why are you questioning everything?”
“Because you just told me we have thirty-eight thousand dollars in debt I didn’t know about.”
She pushed away her plate.
“I was going to explain after I fixed it.”
That sentence would stay with me.
After I fixed it.
After the problem had already shaped our finances.
After the paperwork had been signed.
After another obligation had disappeared.
I asked:
“Did you take Dad’s forty-one thousand?”
Natalie went completely still.
Then:
“Are you really asking me that?”
“Yes.”
She stood.
“I am not going to be interrogated in my own kitchen.”
“Our kitchen.”
She stared.
“Your father has wanted this for years.”
I remained seated.
“Then tell me the money didn’t enter an account you controlled.”
Her face changed.
I knew then she had information she hadn’t shared.
Not necessarily every answer.
But something.
She reached for the stack of mail.
Straightened it.
Then said:
“Stop looking before you damage something you cannot repair.”
I looked up.
“What does that mean?”
She gathered the plates.
No answer.
For the first time in thirteen years, I was afraid of what my wife would say if she finally told me the truth.
And even more afraid of what would happen if she never did.