“I want to show you something,” he said.
He opened the folder.
Inside was a printed document.
A lease agreement.
I scanned the top line.
Daniela Reyes.
An address four miles away.
A twelve-month lease beginning eleven months ago.
“I helped her find the apartment,” Ryan said.
“I co-signed the lease.”
I looked up from the page.
“You’re on her lease.”
“Yes.”
“For eleven months.”
“Yes.”
I set the page down.
“Why are you showing me this?”
“Because you’re going to find out anyway.
I’d rather you hear it from me.” He looked at his hands.
“I’ve been paying half her rent.”
The kitchen was very quiet.
“How much?” I asked.
“Nine hundred a month.”
“For eleven months.”
“Yes.”
I did the math without meaning to.
Nine thousand nine hundred dollars.
Gone from accounts I had believed were shared, from a financial life I thought I understood, from the marriage I had been living inside without knowing its actual shape.
“Where did the money come from?” I asked.
“My freelance account.
The one I use for side projects.
You don’t have visibility on it.”
“I didn’t know that account existed.”
He said nothing.
“Ryan.” I leaned forward.
“Is there anything else I don’t know about?
