I looked at the missed call from Patricia.
She rarely called me directly unless she wanted to complain about the price of her yard service or the state of my mother’s gutters.
A small bubble of unease settled in my chest, but I did not open the call log.
I turned off the ignition.
The engine died with a soft shudder, and the hum of the highway traffic through the closed windows became a distant, muffled roar.
I gathered my laptop bag, making sure the zipper was closed.
As I stepped out of the SUV, the heavy North Carolina humidity hit me, sticking to my skin and my linen trousers.
Another car pulled into the space two rows down, its headlights cutting through the gray morning light.
It was Sarah, one of the logistics coordinators from my department.
She waved to me as she got out of her sedan, her arms full of folders.
“Morning, Emily,” she called out. “Did you see the backup on seventy-seven?”
“It was bad near the state line,” I said, forcing a small smile.
“Always is on Tuesdays,” she said, walking toward the glass entrance.
I followed her at a distance, my phone heavy in my pocket.
It did not ring again while I walked across the lot, but the weight of it felt like a physical pressure against my hip.
My cubicle was on the third floor, overlooking the parking lot and the distant line of pine trees.
By nine o’clock, the office was filled with the low murmur of telephone conversations and the clatter of keyboards.
I booted up my work laptop, the screen lighting up with a dozen unread emails from the regional distribution centers.
I ignored them for a moment.
I opened a private browser window and typed in the web address for my personal bank.
The security check required a code sent to my phone.
I waited, my hand hovering over the desk, until the device vibrated once against the wooden surface.
I entered the digits and clicked submit.
The screen changed to my personal bank portal, showing the primary balance and the linked savings accounts.
I clicked on the payment template tab, the section where all my recurring monthly transfers were stored.
There was the template for the mortgage.
It was labeled simply “Oak Street” and was set to transfer one thousand four hundred sixty dollars on the twenty-ninth of every month.
I clicked on the authorization details, viewing the digital copy of the payment authorization form on my screen.
The document was clean, its black text sharp against the bright white of the portal window.
My digital signature was dated four years ago, a lifetime of small, quiet sacrifices frozen in a PDF.
I stared at the screen, looking at the recurring list of utility payments, the water bill, the gas company, the local electric cooperative.
The sheer number of them seemed impossible when I looked at them in a single column.
How much had I actually spent on that house?
The total was a massive, terrifying number that I had never dared to write down.
I had spent years telling myself it was just a temporary helper role, a short-term patch until Diane got her feet under her.
