The last thing I could remember was the night before.

My younger sister, Delilah, had come by with a mug of warm milk and cinnamon, pressed into my hands with her softest voice, because I looked so tired, she said.

And later that night I’d had a bad argument with my husband.

I had found a wire transfer in our checking account — forty-two thousand dollars, moved out without a word to me — and when I asked Christopher about it, he swore it was a routine business payment.

I told him to show me the receipt right then, that night, and watched something flicker behind his eyes that I did not have a name for yet.