Chapter 23 · Torch Cut

The bank slip was still damp from the rain when I slammed it onto the mattress between his bare feet.

Garrett didn't jump. Didn't reach for it. Barely blinked.

A broke man scrambles for paper. A man with dirty money already knows the zeros before you set it down.

"Four hundred twelve thousand dollars." My ribs locked so he wouldn't hear the shake. "Nassau wire. Cleared nine days ago. Signed with your harbor seal."

"You went through my coat."

"I went through your lies. Different drawer."

He sat up slow. The wool sheet dragged down his chest and stopped at his hips, and the drafty loft went half its size.

"Eleven weeks." I stepped in close enough to get diesel and cold seawater and stale coffee off his skin. "Eleven weeks you paid every cent of my mother's hospice. Then you climb into my bed with ice on your hands and tell me we're two days from getting shut off."

"Power bill's a local meter. Local name. Tied to that slip."

"Why?"

"Because June audits that hospice ledger every Monday at eight in the morning. She wants to watch your mother go down slow. She wants to hear you beg.