Chapter 8: Sunday Dinner

Danica's parents lived in a brick house with a gravel drive and a long dining table set for six.

I put my phone in my jacket pocket with the recorder already running, the way Paula had told me to.

Danica's father sat at the head of the table, and her mother sat at the foot.

Neil sat next to Danica.

He didn't look at me when I came in.

"Hazel," her father said, and smiled. "We're so glad you could join the family."

He was a heavy, pleasant man with a gold watch and a soft voice.

He carved the roast himself and put the first slice on my plate.

I didn't touch it.

"I have one question," I said. "Where did my pay go?"

"Eat first, dear," Danica's mother said.

"Where did it go?"

Danica sighed and put down her fork.

"The household, Hazel. You know that."

"There's no rent on those statements. There's no care-home payment. There's no grocery bill."

I laid the pages beside my plate.

"I have twelve months of paper that says it went out of a machine on Route 9."

Her father touched his napkin to his mouth.

"We're all family here," he said. "Let's not turn dinner into an audit."

"Then answer one question and I'll eat."

"Ask it."

"Why is my name on a forty-one thousand dollar line of credit?"