“I want the truth.”
“You want to humiliate me.”
Sylvia put the remaining statements on the table. “I want my money back. And I want to understand why you used my card without asking.”
Priscilla looked at the pages as if Sylvia had spread out a trap. “I was going to pay it back.”
“With what?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It became my business when the charges went onto my account.”
The front doorbell rang. Priscilla flinched. Outside, a delivery van idled at the curb. A man stepped down with a clipboard and began unloading boxes.
The Christmas rentals.
Priscilla looked toward the window, then back at Dean. “This is your fault.”
He blinked. “Mine?”
“You let her make everything about money. You let her treat me like I’m some kind of thief.”
Sylvia’s fingers pressed against the edge of the table. She could feel her pulse in her wrists, but her voice stayed even.
“I didn’t call you anything.”
“You brought out statements.”
“You told me not to call the police.”
Priscilla’s chin trembled. “Because I knew what this would look like.”
Dean took his phone out again. “I’m calling the number on the card.”
Priscilla stepped toward him. “Don’t.”
He looked at her. “Why?”
“Because I can explain.”
“Then explain.”
She stared at him, and something in her face seemed to give way. Not remorse. Not yet. Fear, stripped of its polished edges.
“I used it,” she said. “I needed the money.”
The words sat between them.
“For what?” Dean asked.
Priscilla pressed her lips together.
Sylvia glanced at the statement in his hand. “The jewelry? The hotel? The restaurant charges?”
“Some were business expenses.”
“What business?” Dean asked.
