Chapter 8: Twenty-Eight Miles Didn't Fit On One Receipt
I got home and kitchen looked staged. Bottle still center marble, gray flip lid closed, condensation ring underneath. Black smartphone face up now near towel, screen dark. Derek not at island, but voice came from living room.
"You were at Jenna's," he said. Not question.
I set tote down, arms stayed at sides this time, forced open.
"Yes," I said.
He stood in doorway, dark gray crew-neck t-shirt same as morning, hands empty, no counter to grip.
"You could have told me," he said.
I kept voice even, breathing slow.
"I needed someone outside house," I said.
He nodded once, eyes closed briefly then open, same micro-expression as earlier, tired.
"Dinner?" he asked.
"Not hungry," I said.
I walked past him to office nook off living room, pulled drawer where gas receipts lived in messy stack. He followed to doorway, watched.
"What you looking for?" he asked.
I didn't hide.
"Paper trail," I said. "Miles need receipts."
I spread stack on small desk, wood floor creaking under my knees. Receipts from grocery, pharmacy, gas station, all jumbled, ink faded. I sorted by date, hands steady now task gave focus.
He leaned against frame, arms crossed, mirroring me now.
"You're building case," he said.
I glanced up.
"I'm building timeline," I said. "Pattern needed."
I found no gas receipt for that morning. Last gas receipt dated three days prior, $42.18 at station on Highway 31, miles noted? No. I checked glove box logs, both cars, maintenance booklet where Derek sometimes wrote mileage. Nothing for today.
I took notebook, wrote timeline in plain block letters:
- 7:12 AM location off
- 7:48 call 11m local number
- 8:15 call 4m same number
- 9:03 location on
- Odometer 42,789 → 42,817 = 28 miles
- Gym check-in: none today, last 5:42p yesterday
- Staff: lot empty, class ran, cameras door only
Derek watched me write, jaw tight.
"That's a lot of notes for missed workout," he said, voice low.
I capped pen.
"Missed workout wouldn't need two calls," I said.
Silence hung, pendant light hum from kitchen audible even here.
He pushed off frame, walked back to kitchen, hands landing on marble again, near towel. I followed, notebook in hand, and placed timeline flat on island beside bottle.
"Explain twenty-eight," I said.
He stared at numbers, then at phone, then at me.
"I drove north loop, then south, killed time," he said. "Didn't buy gas. Just drove."
I waited, pause before speaking, natural breathing loud.
"Highway north then south still not twenty-eight with gym three miles away," I said. "County road south to church parking lot maybe six. North loop maybe ten. Still gap."
He swallowed, eyes flicked to flag wall art behind me, not meeting mine.
"I didn't track exact roads," he said. "Just drove."
I folded notebook closed, left timeline visible.
"I kept receipts you had," I said. "No paper, just digital gap and mileage. That's pattern."
He slid phone slightly on marble, same movement as morning, forward then release, nervous habit.
"You want me to pull bank statement too?" he asked, sarcasm thin.
I shook head.
"I want truth," I said. "Not statement."
He exhaled hard through nose, hands pressing counter.
"Give me night," he said. "Let me think."
I picked up tote, tucked notebook inside.
May you like
"Night then," I said. "Document stays."
I left kitchen island, bottle and towel untouched, phone between us like evidence marker, and went to bedroom early, door not locked but closed, listening to his footsteps staying in kitchen long after.
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