Chapter 1

Richard had been paralyzed for three years. I was the one who did everything for him—feeding him, bathing him, and cleaning up his waste.

After the manufacturing plant shut down, I had to swallow my pride. At fifty years old, I took a low-paying temp job at an office, working alongside twenty-somethings.

Every day, I worked from dawn to dusk. I’d rush home to flip him over, wipe his body down, and feed him.

I left my debit card at home so he could have access to funds if needed. Every day at noon, I used DoorDash to have warm soup delivered right to his bedside.

But last month, twenty thousand dollars went missing from the account.

Thinking I was a victim of identity theft, I went to the bank to print out the transaction history.

The recipient’s name was Chloe Vance.

Richard’s ex-girlfriend.

Every single transfer was made right after I left for work in the morning.

The memo line on every transaction read: "Voluntary Gift."

I folded the bank statement neatly and shoved it into my pocket.

When I got home, I warmed up some oatmeal and fed him, one spoonful at a time.

He acted just like he always did—opening his mouth, eyes closed, completely motionless.

I set the bowl down and wiped my hands.

"Richard, you're paralyzed and only have a basic flip-phone. How exactly did you transfer that money?"

01

"What did you say?"

Richard opened his eyes.

"Twenty thousand dollars is missing from the account. The recipient is Chloe Vance, your ex."

"Never heard of her."

"You dated her for three years before we got married. And now you don't know her?"

"That was decades ago. What does that have to do with me?"

"Every single transfer was made right after I left the house. Only you and I know the passcode to that card, and you're the only one home during those hours."

"What are you trying to say?"

"I'm not trying to say anything. I'm asking you what this means."

He closed his eyes again. "Helen, have you been working too hard lately?"

He called me Helen.

For three years, he only called me in two ways: either a grunt to get my attention, or simply opening his mouth to be fed. The only time he ever used my actual name was when he wanted me to shut up.

"Look at yourself. You're fifty. Half your hair is gray, and you have more wrinkles than my mother. Are you sure you're not just going through menopause?"

"I am asking you about the bank transfers."

"And I'm trying to help you find the real reason. Women your age go through hormonal changes. You get paranoid. You start seeing conspiracies everywhere. Remember Sarah, the accountant from my old office? At forty-eight, she kept accusing her husband of cheating. Turns out she just had severe anxiety."

"I don't have anxiety. I have the bank statements."

"Banks make mistakes all the time. Didn't you see the news last week? Some old guy had eight thousand dollars randomly deposited into his account by mistake."

"He got extra money. I lost mine."

"Either way, it's the bank's fault. Why are you standing over my bed interrogating me? I'm a paralyzed man. I have a cheap flip-phone and two useless legs. How could I possibly transfer money?"

As soon as he finished speaking, he started coughing.

His whole body shook, his face turning bright red.

I went to fetch a glass of warm water. It had to be exactly body temperature—he hated it when it was too hot.

He took slow sips, then turned his head away.

"Don't bring this up again."

"Why?"

"You're waving a piece of paper in the face of your paralyzed husband who hasn't been able to move for three years. You look like a psycho."

His voice was barely a whisper.

"If you're tired of taking care of me, just say so. I won't stop you. Just let me rot in this bed. Nobody cares if a useless cripple lives or dies anyway."

This guilt trip worked every single time.

Over the past three years, whenever I showed even a hint of exhaustion, he would throw this line at me.

It was his shield, blocking any questions I had.

I washed the bowl, mopped the floor, and soaked his dirty bed sheets.

Before turning off the lights, I leaned down to grab some tissues from under his pillow—he liked keeping a pack there for his nighttime coughing fits.

My fingers brushed against something hard.

Flat, rectangular, with sharp metallic corners.

A smartphone.

It wasn't the giant-button flip-phone I had bought him, the one that sat on his nightstand solely for emergency calls.

This was a high-end smartphone. I didn't pull it out, but I could feel that the screen was slightly warm to the touch.

"Is the light off yet?" his voice drifted from the pillow.

"Turning it off now."

I slid the phone back exactly where it was and stood up.

"What time are you leaving tomorrow?"

He had never asked me about my schedule before.

"Seven."

"Tell your boss that the medical bills went up again this month."

"Okay."

"Helen."

"Yeah?"

"Don't talk about that bank statement anymore. If neighbors hear about it, they'll think we're going broke."

02

"Ma'am, here is the transaction history for the past three months."

The bank teller slid the stack of papers across the counter.

I hadn't waited until seven to leave the house.

At five-forty, after leaving his oatmeal warming in the pot, I slipped out.

At six AM, the bank was practically empty.

The statement was seven pages long.

I flipped from the back, circling every transfer to Chloe Vance in red ink.

It wasn't just twenty thousand.

In three months, there were eleven transfers. The smallest was one thousand, the largest was five thousand. Totaling twenty-eight thousand dollars.

The timestamps were always between 7:15 AM and 8:00 AM—right after I left, but before I clocked in at work.

There was even one transfer at 12:30 PM. I remembered that day. Our office was on break, and I had taken a twenty-minute nap in the lounge.

"Do you need anything else, ma'am?"

"Can you tell me which branch this recipient account was opened at?"

"Well... by policy, we can't disclose the personal details of other account holders—"

"I'm the one who sent the money. My money was taken and sent to someone else. I can't even know where they opened the account?"

The teller hesitated for a few seconds, then tapped on her keyboard.

"It was opened at the Pine Street branch on the East Side."

Pine Street.

My commute to work was toward the West Side. Pine Street was in the exact opposite direction—a forty-minute bus ride.

During my lunch break, I skipped the cafeteria and took a bus to Pine Street.

I wasn't familiar with this area. It was filled with brand-new apartment complexes.

I didn't have Chloe's address, but I remembered a detail from Richard's old internet service bill from three years ago, right before his accident. I had helped him set up a plan, and the billing address wasn't our home.

At the time, he claimed it was for a friend. I hadn't questioned it.

That address was 118 Pine Street, Pine Crest Apartments, Building 3, Apartment 140