He rubbed his forehead. “House stuff. Utilities. I move money sometimes. It’ll come back.”

I knew then that pushing harder would only build silence between us. So I waited.

A week later, the batteries in the remote died. I went to Troy’s desk to look for replacements.

That’s when I found the receipts.

A tidy stack of hotel bills tucked beneath old envelopes.

At first, I wasn’t alarmed. Troy traveled occasionally. Then I saw the location.

Massachusetts.

Every receipt was from the same hotel.
The same room number.
Month after month.

I sat on the edge of the bed until my hands went numb.

There were eleven receipts.

Eleven trips he never mentioned.

I called the hotel, my voice steady despite the shaking in my hands.

“I’m calling for Mr. Troy,” I said. “I need to reserve his usual room.”

The concierge didn’t hesitate.
“He’s a regular. That room is practically his. When should we expect him?”

I ended the call barely able to breathe.

When Troy came home the next evening, I was waiting at the kitchen table with the receipts laid out.

He froze in the doorway.

“What is this?” I asked.

He glanced down, then away.
“It’s not what you think.”

“Then tell me what it is.”