He waited.
“Give me the envelope.”
She tightened her fingers around it.
“It’s private.”
The father’s eyebrows rose.
“Private between who?”
“Your mother and your daughter.”
“Then why are you holding it?”
No answer.
The daughter whispered:
“She took it from my room.”
The father turned.
“What?”
His wife shook her head.
“I was cleaning.”
“You were in my desk.”
“I was organizing.”
The girl’s voice rose.
“You opened my drawer.”
“You leave everything everywhere.”
“It was locked.”
The father looked toward his wife.
The house seemed to get quieter.
“What did she just say?”
His wife’s face changed.
The daughter continued.
“My desk drawer was locked.”
“How did you open it?”
His stepmother did not answer.
The father repeated:
“How did you open her desk?”
“I found the spare key.”
“Where?”
She looked toward the staircase.
The father already knew.
The spare key had been taped under the underside of his daughter’s dresser when the family moved in.
He had placed it there himself.
Only three people had known.
Him.
His daughter.
His late mother.
His wife should not have.
The daughter whispered:
“She took the key from Grandma’s sewing box.”
That explanation made sense.
The grandmother had helped organize the bedroom after they moved.
The father’s face hardened.
“How long have you been going through her things?”
His wife threw up one hand.
“This is ridiculous.”
“No.”
He stepped forward.
“This is specific.”
“How long?”
She looked toward the daughter.
“Don’t look at her.”
His voice sharpened.
“Look at me.”
The wife did.
“How long?”
“I don’t keep track.”
The father let the answer settle.
Then:
“Why did you ask my daughter for two thousand dollars?”
His wife crossed her arms.
“Because her stepbrother needs a phone.”
“He does not need a two-thousand-dollar phone.”
“He’s sixteen.”
“That sentence doesn’t improve your argument.”
The daughter whispered:
“She said I owed it to him.”
The father looked toward her.
“Why?”
“Because she said I got lucky.”