A long white envelope sat on the dark wood of the sideboard, partially hidden under a heavy ceramic coaster. The blue First State Bank logo was printed clearly in the top left corner.
It was addressed to me, but the paper seal at the top was slightly wrinkled, as if someone had already tried to slide a finger under the adhesive.
“Douglas,” Gertrude called out from the dining room, her voice carrying that thin, sweet tone she used when she wanted his attention. “Come help me with this window lock. The draft is coming right through the frame.”
Douglas walked past me without speaking, his eyes fixed on his phone as he headed toward the back bedroom.
The sound of their voices drifted down the short hallway toward the guest room at the back of the apartment. I stood alone by the sideboard, listening to the floorboards creak as they moved away from the main room.
I picked up the envelope. The paper was crisp, smelling faintly of the damp Seattle air that always crept into the building lobby on wet autumn mornings.
I slid my index finger under the torn paper flap and pulled out the folded document inside. It was the statement for my secondary credit card, the one I kept for emergencies and rarely used.
