“It’s a misunderstanding,” she said. “We can fix it privately.”
Dean looked at the page again. “This is a jewelry store.”
“Those earrings were for your mother,” Priscilla said quickly. “I was going to give them to her for Christmas.”
Sylvia lowered the page enough to meet her eyes. “I’ve never seen them.”
“I hadn’t wrapped them yet.”
“Then show us the receipt.”
Priscilla opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
Dean reached for the statement. Sylvia let him take it. He read the merchant name, the date, and the amount. His brow creased as he turned the page over, as if the back might explain something the front could not.
“How much is this?” he asked.
Sylvia had practiced answering. The number still caught in her throat.
“Just under twenty-eight thousand dollars over eleven months.”
Dean’s face changed by small degrees. Confusion first. Then disbelief. Then the dawning, sick realization that he had been standing beside the truth for a long time and had refused to look at it.
Priscilla grabbed his sleeve. “Dean, I told you your mother said I could use the card.”
“For emergencies,” Sylvia said.
“You never said that.”
“I gave Dean one card. I wrote the words on the envelope it came in.”
Dean looked at his wife. “You told me Mom had asked you to use it for the family expenses.”
“She did.”
“Not for all of this.”
“You said she wouldn’t mind.”
“I said I thought she wouldn’t mind paying for Christmas groceries. I didn’t know you were buying jewelry.”
Priscilla’s eyes shone, but no tears fell. “You’re making it sound deliberate.”
Sylvia took another paper from her purse. “The card was used at a hotel in Chicago the same weekend I was visiting my sister. I was not there. Neither was Dean.”
Dean stared at the date.
Priscilla turned toward the hall. “I’m going home.”
“You live here,” Dean said, almost automatically.
It was a small sentence, and it seemed to surprise all three of them.
Priscilla’s expression hardened. “Then I’m going upstairs.”
“No.” Dean lowered the statement. His voice was quiet, but he did not move aside. “You’re going to tell us what these charges are.”
She laughed once, sharply. “You want to interrogate me in your mother’s kitchen?”
