Part 2
For several minutes, I stared at the screen while the coffee beside me went cold.
Langford Commercial Partners appeared clearly beneath every transfer. The account number matched one listed on an old document Richard had once left beside our printer.
I wanted there to be an innocent explanation.
I remembered him making soup when my sciatica was bad. I remembered the way he held my hand on the anniversary of Andrew’s death. I remembered how frightening the empty house had felt before Richard moved in.
Then I remembered his palm pressing mine against the table while he announced that I had no authority over the young woman whose life I financed.
I canceled every future payment I legally controlled.
I removed Sloane as an authorized user on my credit card. I ended the monthly allowance and the automatic payment on her vehicle. I redirected my consulting income into an account Richard could not access.
I did not take anything from her.
I simply stopped giving.
At 7:03, Richard entered the kitchen holding his phone.
“What the hell did you do?”
I turned the laptop toward him and spread the printed statements across the table.
“I followed your boundary. Sloane isn’t my daughter. You’re her father.”
His anger lasted five seconds.
Then he saw the transfers.
The color drained from his face.
I tapped the page. “Why did almost thirty thousand dollars marked for her education go into your business?”
He reached for the statements.
I pulled them back.
