Chapter 4
My apartment smelled like leftover pasta and the dryer sheets I used to make Sophie's cardigan feel softer.
I hadn't turned on the overhead light in the kitchen. Just the one over the stove. Sophie was asleep on the couch with her legs tucked under her, still in that grey cardigan. I'd taken her shoes off at the door and she hadn't woken up. Her breathing was even. Roman stood by my kitchen counter because I hadn't asked him to sit down.
He hadn't come up right away. I'd texted him the address from the parking lot after Helena left through the side exit, and he'd waited downstairs until I told him Sophie was asleep. When I opened the door he just stood there for a second, looking at the chipped paint on my doorframe like he was trying to memorize it.
"You didn't have to let me up," he said quietly.
"I know," I said. I kept my voice low.
I poured water into two glasses. My hands were shaking and I tried to hide it by holding the glass tighter. The ballroom felt a thousand miles away from this kitchen with its cheap linoleum and the refrigerator that hummed too loud.
He set his phone on the counter between us. The screen was already open to a banking app.
"I started sending it the month after I left," he said. "Automatic transfer. Same day every month."
He scrolled. I leaned in. Row after row of the same line.
Transfer Out - $50,000.00 - To H. M. Whitmore Revocable Trust - Completed.
May 12. June 12. July 12. It went on and on. I watched him drag his thumb down the screen and the dates kept coming. 2023, 2024, 2025. Thirty-six lines. Then thirty-seven, thirty-eight.
"I never missed," he said. "I thought if I couldn't be here, at least she wouldn't have to worry about rent. About anything."
I stared at the name on the recipient line. H. M. Whitmore. Helena Margaret Whitmore. I'd seen that name on the gala programs she left on my counter, on the return address of envelopes that always came sealed.
"That's not my account," I said.
He looked up at me.
"My account is at First County," I said. "Checking. Under Nora Ellis. That's where my paycheck goes. That's where everything goes. I've never had a trust account. I've never even seen that name on my statements."
I opened my own banking app with my thumb. It felt slow. I pulled up the last three years of history and turned the screen toward him. My balance on the top read $1,842.33. Below it, deposits. $3,200 payroll. $3,200 payroll. A $200 transfer from Helena last Christmas with the memo 'for Sophie's coat.'
No fifty thousand. Not once.
Roman didn't say anything for a long moment. He just looked back and forth between the two phones lying side by side on my counter. His jaw tightened and he breathed through his nose.
"She told us your money stopped three years ago," I said, and my voice cracked on the last word.
He closed his eyes for a second. "I sent it to the account she set up before Sophie was born. She said it was for you both. That it would be easier for you to access if it was under her trust, in case anything happened to me. I didn't question it."
Sophie made a small sound in her sleep and shifted. I froze until she settled again.
I picked up his phone and screenshotted the pages while he watched. I sent them to myself, one by one. Twelve screenshots. The confirmation numbers, the dates, the amounts, the recipient account number with the last four digits visible.
"My mom told Sophie you were dead," I whispered. "She told her you didn't want us anymore. And the whole time..."
"I know," he said. He didn't reach for me. He kept his hands flat on the counter. "I should have checked. I called Helena twice last year when the transfers bounced back as completed but she didn't pick up, and I told myself you just didn't want to talk to me."
The room felt too small. The refrigerator hummed.
"What do we do?" I asked.
He looked at Sophie asleep on the couch, then back at the phones.
"We get paper," he said. "Not screenshots. Official statements. From my bank and from yours. If I go to Helena with just my phone she'll say I faked it. Or that I sent it somewhere else."
I nodded. That was the first thing that had made sense all night.
"I can request them in the morning," I said. "Online. They take a day or two to generate. For the full history."
"Do it from your bank," he said. "I'll request mine tonight. We'll compare the account numbers exactly. No gaps she can talk her way out of."
He picked up his phone and started the request right there, tapping through the verification. I did the same on mine. Request Official Statements - Last 36 Months - PDF. I entered my password with my thumb and hit confirm. A little message popped up: Your statements will be available within 1-2 business days.
We both stared at the confirmation screens.
"Don't tell her we looked," he said quietly.
"I won't," I said.
May you like
Sophie coughed in her sleep and I went to her, pulling the thin blanket up over her shoulders. Roman stayed by the counter, not moving closer, giving me space. When I turned back around he was looking at the screenshots on my phone, at the name of Helena's trust, and his expression wasn't angry anymore. It was something colder, more careful.
I'd wanted him to be lying. It would have been simpler if he had been.
