One hundred seventy-three thousand six hundred dollars.

A policy envelope dated January 12.

A husband who could not tell me whether I had signed a document bearing my own name.

I had no proof of wrongdoing.

I had a date, a debt, and an explanation that changed shape whenever I touched it.

Michael finished his sandwich and gathered the wrappers.

“Let’s get moving,” he said.

“We don’t have all day.”