I pressed my right hand flat on my breastbone and looked across the lace tablecloth at my mother.

“Mom,” I said, “on Tuesday David took four thousand dollars out of our main checking account.

And yesterday I found a key in his jacket to a post office box in Greenfield.”

My mother stopped with her coffee spoon halfway to her cup.

“Clara, what on earth are you talking about?”

“He told me we couldn’t afford twenty-two dollars for my prenatal vitamins,” I said, my voice rising.

“He chewed me out for buying fresh orange juice, but he’s hiding a post office box under a name he won’t explain.”