“You heard me wrong,” Max said quickly, his posture stiffening.

“I said 2021.”

“No,” I said, walking closer to the couch.

“You said Claire picked out the kitchen tile for the Birch Street house back in 2019.”

“I was talking about her parents’ house,” Max said, turning away to shove a pair of pajamas into the side pocket.

“You always do this, shorty.

You hear a date and you turn it into a whole federal case.”

“The Birch Street property was bought under a private hold in 2019,” I said, the math locking into place behind my eyes.