The petals had already gone limp in their plastic sleeve.

I dropped them in the trash can.

The receipt was stuck to the cellophane.

Eleven dollars and forty-nine cents, charged to the joint card.

I smoothed the receipt flat on the counter.

Sarah Jenkins, my attorney, lined the bank statements up edge to edge across her desk.

“Forty-one thousand two hundred dollars,” she said.

She tapped the bottom line with a yellow highlighter.