He was right.

The temptation to name every transfer as theft was powerful.

So was the urge to believe Kenneth had left an obvious trail because he thought I was foolish.

But a careful record could protect me better than a dramatic accusation.

That afternoon, I found a photograph from our ninth anniversary tucked into the back of a kitchen drawer.

Kenneth and I stood in front of the house, both laughing because the timer had caught us mid-sentence.

I stared at my own face.