She had been measuring an empty chair.
That evening, Rebecca came to my room with a folder.
“We found something in the apartment documents.”
I stood too quickly. “What?”
“Not disaster. But strange. Elias insisted on handling the final wiring instructions, correct?”
“Yes. He said he had time during lunch.”
“The funds landed properly with escrow. That part is fine. But before that, they sat in the joint account for nine days.”
“I remember. The closing was delayed.”
“During those nine days, three transfers came out and were returned before closing.”
My pulse jumped. “Returned?”
“Yes. Same amounts. Same day or next day. Small enough not to affect closing but large enough to be noticed if we’re looking.”
“How much?”
“Ten thousand each.”
I stared at her.
“Where did they go?”
“To an account connected to a company called B.L. Consulting.”
“Brenda?”
“That would be my assumption, but assumptions are not evidence.”
I sank onto the edge of the bed.
Brenda had been at my bridal shower. She had brought a ceramic vase and joked that Elias was terrible at choosing home decor. She had touched her stomach once, briefly, when she thought no one was watching.
“How pregnant is she?” I asked.
Rebecca paused. “Do you know?”
“No. Cynthia said the baby would get its own room in a year.”
“Then we don’t know yet.”
I looked at the folder. “Why move the money out and put it back?”
“Testing access. Creating records. Maybe proving to someone that funds existed. Maybe borrowing temporarily.”
“Borrowing from me.”
Rebecca’s face did not change. “Yes.”
After she left, I finally showered.
I stood under hot water until my skin turned pink, watching glitter from my wedding makeup circle the drain. I had thought I would wake up that morning beside my husband in a hotel suite overlooking the bay. Instead, I washed dust from my hair in my father’s house while attorneys traced money I had trusted to a man who called me plain rice.
My sadness did not arrive as one storm. It came in small, humiliating waves.
The toothbrush Elias kept at my apartment.
His handwriting on grocery lists.
The way he used to warm my hands between his palms in movie theaters because I was always cold.
Had he hated those moments? Or had he simply been able to perform tenderness the way some people performed music, beautifully and without meaning?
At nine that night, I opened our wedding album preview. The photographer had already sent ten images.
There we were beneath the arch, my veil moving in the wind, Elias looking at me as if the world had narrowed to my face.
I enlarged the photo until his eyes filled the screen.
I searched for greed.
I found devotion.
