“Lauren, I can explain—”
“I know you can. You’ve had three years and eight months to explain. Valentine’s Day. You made spaghetti.”
Diane snatched the paper off the counter.
“That’s mine,” she said. “That’s my copy. That’s—” She looked at it. “No. Mine’s at home. This is his.”
“You made copies?” I said.
“Of course I made copies. I’m not a fool.”
She turned back to Greg. She still had one hand clamped on his arm.
“You have to stop her. Make her take it back. Call the bank. Tell them it was a mistake. I don’t want the money.”
“Mom.” Greg looked like he was drowning. “She paid you back. Isn’t that—I mean. That’s what you wanted? You said you’d want it back someday.”
“I never said that!”
“You did. You said, I’ll get it back someday, honey, don’t worry about it.”
“I meant the house!” Diane let go of his arm. Her face had gone a dark, blotchy red. “I meant I’d get it back in the house! In my room! That was never a loan, Gregory! That was my investment! That paper says what I bought!”
