Massachusetts.
Every receipt was from the same hotel.
The same room number.
Month after month.
I sat on the edge of the bed until my hands went numb.
There were eleven receipts.
Eleven trips he never mentioned.
I called the hotel, my voice steady despite the shaking in my hands.
“I’m calling for Mr. Troy,” I said. “I need to reserve his usual room.”
The concierge didn’t hesitate.
“He’s a regular. That room is practically his. When should we expect him?”
I ended the call barely able to breathe.
When Troy came home the next evening, I was waiting at the kitchen table with the receipts laid out.
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