I faced the shelves.
The first object within reach was a manila envelope labeled M—INSURANCE / COPAYS. I opened it because it was easier than opening MEDICAL, and immediately wished I had not. Inside were photocopies of checks made out to the cancer center, pharmacy receipts, utility bills, and printouts of automatic transfers. Some were from my accounts.
Some were not.
“What is this?”
Nobody answered.
I spread the papers over the folding table. The plastic surface flexed beneath my hands. One transfer after another had come from an account ending in 7712, an account I did not recognize, routed through Wade before arriving in mine as deposits I had assumed were adjustments from our divorce settlement.
My treatment months were marked in Randall’s handwriting.
CYCLE 1.
CYCLE 2.
POWER BILL—DON’T LET HER NOTICE.
PROPERTY TAX.
PHARMACY.
There were amounts beside each one.
I looked at Wade. “Don’t lie.”
