He picked the heavy manila envelope up off the island, turned it over in his hands and smacked it flat against his palm with a sharp crack.

“I spent six years building a spotless public record in this town,” David said, his whisper growing thinner as he leaned over the island.

“I’m not letting a woman who whines about the price of orange juice wreck my standing with the regional board.”

“The prenatal vitamins cost twenty-two dollars,” I said.

“You took four thousand dollars out on a Tuesday morning from an account with my Social Security number on it.”

David didn’t answer.