“A few?”
“Maybe four. Maybe five.”
Interesting.
The access logs I had checked earlier showed Mom’s banking information being redirected seven months ago.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to distract you.”
“You emailed me about the broken dishwasher.”
“That was different.”
I almost smiled.
Instead, I rubbed my forehead.
“I guess.”
Abigail reached across the island and touched my hand.
Her fingers were warm.
I remembered those same hands holding mine at our wedding.
I remembered believing I knew the woman attached to them.
“I tried everything,” she said. “Doctors, routines, medications. She became paranoid. Then aggressive.”
“Did she hurt you?”
Abigail hesitated.
Just half a second.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
Her hand moved instinctively toward her shoulder.
“Mostly here.”
There wasn’t a mark.
“You should have told me.”
“I was embarrassed.”
Then she gave me exactly what I’d been waiting for.
A small, contemptuous laugh.
