David went still, his hand still flat on the painted mailbox.

He didn’t answer me, and his eyes didn’t blink, but the muscles in his jaw clenched twice until the skin over his cheeks went pale.

“That money belongs to our household,” I said.

“That money belongs to the business,” he whispered, his voice flat and cold as stone.

He turned on his heel and walked into the dark garage, slamming the side door behind him with a heavy clack of the latch.

Forty seconds later I followed him, pushing open the unlatched side door by the garden hose reel.