“Everything has to do with me when I’m the one paying for it,” I said.

I flipped the binder open, the plastic sleeves crackling in the quiet room.

The smell of old paper and dust rose from the pages.

The first page was a yellowed receipt from the local hardware store dated July 6th, eight years ago.

“What is this trash?” Juliette sneered, reaching out to push the binder away.

I slapped my hand down on her wrist.

My grip was firm, cold.

She gasped, pulling her hand back as if she had been burned.

“Do not touch my book, Juliette,” I said.

Sarah took a step closer to the island, leaning over to look at the plastic sleeve.

Through the window, the humid afternoon air carried the faint, sweet smell of the smoking pork shoulder on the grill.

“Is that the bill for the cedar deck?” Sarah asked.

“Yes,” I said. “The deck your brothers stained with oil and then abandoned.”

“We paid for the stain,” Juliette muttered, her fingers twitching against her linen trousers.