The total at the register was thirty-eight dollars.

The teenage cashier looked at me, waiting for my payment.

I stood there, frozen.

I had my credit card in my coat pocket.

It was a personal card, but the account was linked to the joint bank portal where Julian’s accountants sometimes monitored expenses.

Lydia had told me not to use it under any circumstances.

But Harrison was tugging at my sleeve, pointing at the apples in the bag.

“Will that be cash or card, ma’am?” the cashier asked.

“Card,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

My hands trembled as I pulled the blue plastic card from my coat pocket.

I slid it into the card reader.

The machine beeped, processing the transaction.

The cashier handed me the receipt. “Have a nice day.”

I took the plastic bag and hurried out of the store, my heart pounding against my ribs.

It was just thirty-eight dollars.

Surely Julian was too busy dealing with his board of directors to notice a small charge in Maine.

When we got back to the motel, the room felt colder than before.