“You bought the cheapest gallon at the discount store and left the empty cans in my garden,” I said.

“I had to hire someone to pressure-wash the cedar before it rotted.”

I turned the page.

The next sleeve held a grocery receipt three feet long, the thermal paper faded but still readable.

“July 2018,” I said. “Your entire family stayed here for three weeks.”

“You ate ribeyes, imported cheeses, and drank twelve cases of craft beer.”

“I have the itemized receipts for every single meal.”

“We were guests,” Juliette said, her voice rising. “You don’t charge family for dinner.”

“You do when they invite six of their friends without asking,” I replied.

I pointed to the bottom of the receipt, my fingernail tapping the plastic.

“The total for that month’s groceries was two thousand, four hundred and twelve dollars.”

“And you left a twenty-dollar bill on the counter with a note saying ‘thanks for the snacks.'”

Dan looked down at the floor, his face flushed.

He rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers pulling at his collar.

“Annie,” he muttered. “I didn’t know you kept those.”