The kitchen grew warmer.

The air felt thick, like a storm was rolling in over the hills.

“I am not signing anything,” Juliette said, turning back to me.

“You have no proof of these expenses. You cannot just make up a number and force me to sign a legal document.”

“I didn’t make up the number,” I said.

“You expect me to believe you kept track of every hamburger we ate?” Juliette laughed, a cold, mocking sound.

“Every hamburger,” I said.

“Every gallon of propane for the pool heater.”

“Every bottle of wine you took from our cellar without asking.”

Juliette shook her head, her eyes darting toward the front door as if she were planning to run for it.

But the screen door was latched, and the driveway was dark.

“You are bluffing,” Juliette said.

“You don’t have receipts from seven years ago, Annie.”

“You think I’m that careless?” I asked.

“You’re a housewife in the country,” Juliette said, her voice dripping with venom.

“You spend your days baking bread and pulling weeds. You don’t have the stomach for a real fight.”