They were the consistent, same-curving evasions of two people who knew precisely what the money did, and had agreed, somewhere I was not present, that I was not to be told.

Chapter 10 — Three Years of Fridays

On Monday night at ten past nine Marcus stood behind my chair while I opened the banking app, and I pressed the first Friday and began to scroll backward through the transfer history.

There was another five hundred and fifty.

Then another.

Then another.

Keep going, he said, one hand on the back of my chair.

I did.