Chapter 9: Three Hundred Twelve Dollars

I watched the video three times in Ray's truck.

Then I turned his phone face down on the seat.

"Comments are on Jared's side," Ray said.

"They would be. He's the one who isn't covered in mud."

He started the engine.

"Where to?"

"The bank."

I had my old debit card from grad school.

I'd never closed the account. I'd moved my paycheck into the joint account with Jared six years ago and forgotten the old one existed.

The teller slid a slip across the counter.

Three hundred twelve dollars and nine cents.

"That's all?" Ray said behind me.

"That's what I had at twenty-four."

"What about the other one? The joint one?"

The joint account was at a different bank, across the street.

My name was on it. I had my passport.

The woman at that desk took a long time with her screen.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Ostrom," she said finally. "The balance is zero."

"There was eighty-four thousand dollars in that account."

"It was transferred out on October eleventh. The full amount. To an account in the name of Jared Thayer."

October eleventh.

The morning after the road.

He'd woken up in our bed, posted that I'd left to get help, and then moved our savings before lunch.

My royalties were in that money.

Five years of Ironwood checks.

"Can he do that?" Ray asked.

"It's a joint account," the woman said carefully. "Either holder can withdraw."

I thanked her.

I don't know why. I just did.

Out on the sidewalk my phone wouldn't connect to anything.

It had finally charged at the motel, and now it said NO SERVICE.

It had been on Jared's family plan.

"He cut your phone," Ray said.

"He cut everything."

The company car I drove was in the Thayer garage. The house was in his name. The furniture was in his name.

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