Chapter 3: Every Dollar Gone
The hospital room was too warm after the apartment. That was the first thing I noticed when the nurse left and the door clicked shut. The heat came up from the vent by the window and made the white blanket on the bed feel heavy.
I was alone. He'd left his phone on the tray table when the nurse asked him to step out for the exam. Screen up. The baby was in the clear bassinet next to me, asleep under the light blue blanket they'd given us, her little hat pushed down over her forehead. I could hear her breathing.
His phone was still lit. I hadn't meant to look. I'd just meant to move it so the water cup wouldn't knock it over. But the screen was on the banking app.
It said 19:22 at the top.
I held it in both hands. My thumb left a print on the glass. There were three accounts listed, one under the other, each with a green toggle to the right. Joint Checking, Personal Savings, Baby Fund. I'd named that last one myself when I was seven months pregnant.
Joint Checking — $3.00.
Personal Savings — $2.00.
Baby Fund — $0.00.
I stared at them. I thought the phone had not refreshed. That it was an old screenshot or a loading error. I pulled down to refresh. The little wheel spun. The numbers came back the same, just a second later. $3.00 and $2.00. The green toggles stayed green.
I scrolled down with my thumb. My hand was shaking a little and I had to steady the phone with my other hand.
There was a transaction list under the balances. Recent Activity. The dates were all from this week, while he'd been gone. Transfer — $1,400.00 to external account. Transfer — $800.00. Autopay Canceled — Columbia Gas. Autopay Canceled — Electric. Autopay Canceled — Internet. Each line had a timestamp in gray text. Each transfer said Authorized User.
I didn't know what external account meant. I checked the savings line again. It showed the same. Every few days a transfer out, then nothing left. The gas bill line said Canceled by account holder 02/11 — $0.00 due. That was the heat.
I felt cold again, even in the warm room. I kept thinking about the frost on the inside of the apartment windows. How I'd kept her against my chest on the carpet because the floor was the only place out of the draft.
The door opened and he came back in. He'd taken his coat off and was holding it over his arm. His suitcase wasn't with him; I guessed he'd left it in the hall. He stopped when he saw me holding the phone.
"You left this," I said. My voice was quiet. I held it out a little.
He came over to the bed. He didn't take it right away. He looked at the screen and then at me, and I could see him breathe in and hold it for a second.
"I was going to show you," he said.
"I looked," I said. "I didn't mean to at first."
He nodded once. He pulled the chair closer and sat down. He set his coat on the empty chair. The baby made a small sound and I reached over and put my hand on the edge of her bassinet without looking away from him.
He said, "Is she okay? What did the nurse say?"
"She's okay. They want her to stay until the apartment is warm again." I paused. My throat was dry. "I saw the balances."
He rubbed his hand over his mouth. His stubble made a soft sound.
"What happened to it?" I asked. I kept my voice low and even. I didn't want it to sound like an accusation, even though it felt like one in my chest. "The money. Where did it go?"
He looked down at the phone in my hands. The green toggles were still bright on the screen.
"I don't know yet," he said. "I saw the same thing when I landed. The checking was at three dollars. I thought it was a mistake."
"The transfers say authorized user," I said. "And the gas autopay was canceled. On the eleventh."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "My mom has access to the joint account. She helped set it up last year when we opened the baby fund. She said it was for emergencies."
I felt my stomach turn over. "Did you ask her to move it?"
"No," he said quickly. "I didn't. She told me on the phone yesterday that you canceled everything. That you wanted to handle the bills yourself now that the baby was here."
"I didn't cancel anything," I said. The words came out flat. "I was on the floor with her. The heat wouldn't come on."
He was quiet for a moment. I could hear the monitor beeping softly behind the bed.
"I believe you," he said. He finally held out his hand and I gave him the phone. His thumb hovered over the screen, not tapping anything. "The app shows times for everything. And the cameras — they show who was in the apartment."
I looked at the phone again where the banking app still glowed. 19:22 hadn't changed. The baby fund at zero.
"Do you think she did it?" I asked.
He didn't answer right away. He stared at the $3.00 line as if looking harder would make it explain itself.
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"I think someone did it on purpose," he said. "And it wasn't you. And it wasn't me."
He locked the phone and the screen went black. The room felt warmer again without that light.
