Marshall came home around three o’clock. I heard the truck door slam and his heavy boots on the back porch steps. He walked through the kitchen, dropping his keys on the counter with the usual familiar clatter.
Hey, honey, he called out. Did you get the mulch down?
I didn’t answer right away. I stayed sitting on the edge of the bed with the pawn shop receipt folded in my palm.
Marshall appeared in the doorway, wiping his forehead with a paper towel. He stopped when he saw me sitting there in the middle of the afternoon with my coat still on.
His eyes flicked to my hand, then to the dresser where my jewelry box sat open.
What is it? he asked. His voice dropped into that careful, reasonable register he used when he wanted to smooth over an argument.
I stood up and walked across the room until I stood right in front of him. I didn’t yell. I didn’t throw anything. I just held out the pawn receipt and the motel keycard.
He looked down at them. The color drained out of his face so fast it looked like someone had turned off a light under his skin.
Where did you find those? he asked. His voice was thin.
In the truck, I said.
He opened his mouth, closed it, and looked away toward the window. The silence in the bedroom grew heavy, stretching out between us like a physical thing. Thirty-four years narrowed down to this stupid little piece of plastic and a paper slip from a shop downtown.
Who was it, Marshall? I asked.
He didn’t answer right away. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, his shoulders slumping under his work shirt. It was just someone from the office, he muttered. It didn’t mean anything.
