The October bank statements lay on the kitchen table, their edges aligned with the dark grain of the oak.
Under the stack sat the yellowed receipt for exactly eight thousand dollars, dated three years ago.
Ryan poured boiling water into the teapot, the steam rising to meet the chill in the room.
I ran my thumb over the fading purple ink of the bank stamp on the receipt.
The balance on the latest statement did not reconcile with my ledger.
“The savings account is short by that exact sum, Ryan,” I said, pointing to the bottom line of the printout.
He did not look at the paper, his fingers tightening on the ceramic handle of the teapot.
