It was a cool, measured press of his lips.

He lay down on his side of the bed and faced the wall.

I sat under the bedroom light, touching the cold gold chain against my collarbone.

I traced the tiny metal links with my thumbnail, wondering why a blank budget template needed a formal electronic signature authorization.

The next morning at ten o’clock, I dropped my heavy canvas tote bag onto the carpet in Rebecca Sloan’s Denver office.

I pulled out six months of joint checking records, utility bills, and the printed summary of my grandmother Eleanor’s equity line.