“These are your bank statements, Dad,” I said.

“Where did you get those?” my mother demanded, her voice rising an octave.

She tried to step between my father and the table, but he reached out and gently moved her arm.

“Let me see,” he said.

I clicked on the first PDF file in the folder, dated three years ago.

“This is the joint savings account you set up for Megan’s medical treatments,” I said.

The fan inside my laptop began to whirr, a steady, high-pitched hum in the quiet room.

“We know what’s in there,” my mother said, her face tight. “We put our own money in it.”

“You did,” I said. “Every single month.”

I scrolled down the page, highlighting a column of numbers in yellow.

“On the fifteenth of every month, three thousand dollars was wired out,” I said.

“To the clinic in Cleveland Heights,” my mother said quickly. “For her physical therapy.”

“No,” I said. “The clinic in Cleveland Heights closed four years ago.”

My father squinted at the screen, leaning forward until his forehead almost touched the bezel.