During dinner, David casually asked whether I had reconsidered selling the cabin.
“I’m not selling it,” I said.
He studied me for a moment.
“You seem unusually quiet.”
“I’m tired.”
The following morning, after David left for the hospital, I reviewed our bank statements.
Every Friday, he had withdrawn three or four hundred dollars in cash.
The payments were small enough to avoid attention but regular enough to be a salary.
Then I unlocked his office using a spare key I found in the kitchen drawer.
Inside his desk, I discovered a notebook filled with reports about me.
Some entries described places I had actually visited.
Others were complete inventions.
One claimed I had purchased two bottles of wine and appeared unsteady outside the store.
I had gone directly home that day.
Marcus had refused to provide the evidence David wanted, so David had begun creating it himself.
