He reached into his back pocket, took out his leather wallet and pulled my household debit card out of its plastic sleeve.

“You’re finished buying things for this house,” he said, tossing the card onto the counter between us.

“I’m taking over every account as of tonight.

You don’t get one dollar without my say-so.”

“You can’t lock me out of our joint account, Zane.”

“I already talked to the manager at First National this afternoon,” he said.

“And if you keep throwing wild accusations around in front of Jeremy, I’ll pack his things and move us into a rental by the county line by Friday.”

He spun around and stomped up the stairs, his heavy work boots rattling the framed pictures in the hall.