“They’re mine.”
“My name’s on the account. Ray’s name was on the account. Yours isn’t.”
“I’ve been managing it for two years, Mama, you don’t even know how to—”
“I managed a trauma bay for thirty-four years, Kyle. I can read a bank statement.”
He looked at the watch on his own wrist.
I don’t think he meant to.
It was just where his eyes went.
“Where’d the watch come from, son?”
“It’s a watch.”
“It’s a Swiss watch. I know what those cost. I dated your father.”
Gene hadn’t said a word.
He was cutting his roast beef into very small, very careful pieces.
Kyle pointed at him.
“You. This is you.”
“Son, I haven’t seen a single statement,” Gene said. “Ask your mother.”
“He hasn’t,” I said.
“He told me not to show him.”
“He told me to read them myself first.”
“And I did.”
Kyle sat back down.
