“Your joint marital account is missing pages.”

The clerk pushed the copies across the counter.

I picked them up.

The top sheet was still warm from the machine and smelled of toner.

“Pages missing,” I repeated.

“Eleven of them.

I counted twice.”

“Bank statements don’t just walk away.”

“No,” Arthur said.

“They don’t.”

He released my wrist.

The clerk asked whether we needed anything else.

Arthur said no, then said hold on, and asked for a receipt for the copies.

He slid the receipt into the envelope and pressed it flat against his chest.