“Why the glovebox?” I asked, my voice rising slightly before I caught myself.
“Because he told me he was playing racquetball, but he was actually checking into the motel near the highway,” she said, her voice flat and matter-of-fact.
She wiped her hands on a paper towel, the rustle of the paper loud in the small room.
“He had a separate account at the credit union downtown that I only found because of a misdirected tax form,” she added.
“Julian does not have another account,” I said, though the words felt hollow in my mouth as I said them.
“They always have something,” Sarah said, picking up her orange slices. “Check the joint statements first, just to be sure there are no odd transactions.”
The lunch buzzer rang, its high-pitched tone signaling the end of our thirty minutes.
