My husband walked in first. Mark Callaway. Tall, handsome, expensive-looking without ever seeming to try. The kind of man who looked even better in motion than in pictures because he knew exactly how much space to take up and how to occupy it gracefully. Behind him came his mother, Vivien, carrying shopping bags hooked over one arm like trophies.
They were laughing about something.
Not just smiling. Laughing.
Vivien had four bags—Nordstrom, Neiman Marcus, a boutique from Atlanta, and one with tissue paper in pale gold peeking out from the top. Mark had two more. He kicked the door shut with his heel, still mid-sentence, and then both of them looked up and saw my grandfather’s face.
The laughter died instantly.
“Edward,” Vivien said. Her voice shifted into the careful register she used when she needed to sound gracious. “What a lovely surprise.”
My grandfather did not look at her.
He was staring at Mark.
“Mark,” he said.
Just that. Mark.
My husband set the bags on the chair by the window. “Hey, Edward. I didn’t know you were—”
“Where,” my grandfather asked, “has my granddaughter’s money gone?”
The silence that followed had weight. Norah, who had started fussing softly a moment earlier, went still against me as if even she could feel the room harden.
Mark blinked once. “I’m sorry?”
“Do not insult me with theater.” Grandpa’s voice went colder. “Every payment was wired into the household account you established after the wedding. An account my granddaughter believed was being used for family expenses. An account you managed. Where has the money gone?”
I turned to look at Mark.
He would not meet my eyes.
“Things have been complicated financially,” he said. “The market has been volatile. There were obligations, investments—”
“Three years,” I said.
The words surprised me. They sounded calm, but my whole body was shaking.
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