Not a question. I don’t insult her intelligence by pretending otherwise.
“The ledgers.” The lie comes smooth, practiced. “I found some irregularities. Lost track of time.”
Nonna Rosa’s expression doesn’t change. The wooden spoon keeps its circular path through the grits. But her silence tells me she’s not fooled.
“Mhm.” She turns back to the stove. “Them ledgers gonna be waitin’. They don’t get cold. They don’t get hungry.” A pause. “You need to eat.”
“I’ll eat later.”
“That what you told yourself last night too?”
The words land soft. Not harsh. Somehow that makes them worse. My throat closes. I press my thumbnail into the pad of my index finger until the sting gives me something to hold onto.
“I should get back to work.” I set the cup down, tea untouched. “The discrepancies won’t document themselves.”
Nonna Rosa makes a sound. Low. Knowing.
“That study ain’t goin’ nowhere,cher.But you take your time. You do what you gotta do.” She waves toward the door. “Just know there’s grits and biscuits when you ready. I make enough for two, whether somebody shows up or not.”
I pause at the doorway. My throat tightens.
“Nonna Rosa.” My voice comes out wrong. Too tight. Too raw. “Thank you.”
She doesn’t turn around. Just keeps stirring.
“Go on now. Go find them numbers that don’t lie.”
The study is quiet.
Light floods through the windows, illuminating the desk I’ve claimed as my own. Papers stacked by category. Ledgers aligned with precision. Three pens arranged parallel to the edge, one inch apart.
I don’t remember arranging them like that.
I sink into the chair. Black. Blue. Red. Lined up like soldiers awaiting inspection. My hand hovers over them, fingers itching to adjust the spacing. Make them more even. More ordered.
Stop.
Palms flat against the desk. I count the grain lines in the wood until the itch fades. Pens in a row. Papers in stacks. Numbers that add up to the same answer no matter how many times you check.
Numbers don’t leave.
I open the first ledger. Supplier payments, February through April. Standard operating expenses. Nothing unusual in the totals, but a discrepancy caught my attention two nights ago and I never finished following the thread.
Two nights ago. Before the nightmare. Before his mouth found the hollow of my throat and his hands slid beneath my nightgown and I forgot how to breathe.
Focus.
The irregularity is subtle. Three payments to the same vendor. Different account names, different invoice numbers, but the amounts are too similar. Twelve percent above market rate. Without exception.
Someone is skimming.
I pull out my notebook. Start documenting. Transaction dates, amounts, shell companies. My pen moves across the page in neat, controlled strokes.
This should consume me.
But my mind keeps drifting. To his sheets, empty this morning. To how he said my name last night, rough and reverent, like he couldn’t believe I was real.
To the moment I looked at him after, soft and trusting, and watched resolve shatter behind his expression.
