"Of course," the concierge said without hesitation. "He's a regular. That room is basically reserved for him. When would he like to check in?"
I couldn't breathe.
"I… I'll call back," I managed, and hung up.
***
When Troy came home the next evening, I was waiting at the kitchen table with the receipts. He stopped short in the doorway, keys still in his hand.
"What is this?" I asked.
I was waiting at the kitchen table with the receipts.
He looked at the paper, then at me.
"It's not what you think."
"Then tell me what it is."
He stood there, jaw tight, shoulders stiff, staring at the receipts like they were something I'd planted to trap him.
"I'm not doing this," he finally said. "You're blowing it out of proportion."
"It's not what you think."
Continued on the next page
