I frowned.
“Then who is he?”
Nathan looked at me.
“He’s the man who owns the debt.”
I felt cold.
“What debt?”
Nathan swallowed.
“The debt I took out before we got married.”
I stared at him.
“You said you had no debt when we married.”
“I lied.”
“How much?”
He didn’t answer.
I stepped closer.
“How much do you owe him?”
Nathan’s eyes filled with tears.
“Everything.”
The word hung in the air.
Everything.
I didn’t understand.
Then he continued.
“He knows about the house.”
My stomach dropped.
“He knows about you.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s been waiting for me to lose control of the property.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
Nathan looked toward the front door.
Then he whispered:
“Because the house isn’t just worth money.”
I frowned.
“What are you talking about?”
He looked at Margaret.
She was crying again.
Then Nathan said the words I would remember for the rest of my life.
“There’s something buried in that house.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
He didn’t answer.
“What’s buried here?”
Nathan looked terrified.
And before he could say another word…
someone knocked three times on the front door.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Nathan went completely white.
Margaret whispered:
“He found us.”
I looked toward the door.
Then back at my husband.
“Who?”
Nobody answered.
The knocking came again.
Three times.
And suddenly, the house I had spent three years paying for didn’t feel like my home anymore.
It felt like a trap.
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PART 4 — THE DEBT HE COULDN’T HIDE
THE NUMBERS
Rachel left without saying another word.
The front door closed behind her.
For a few seconds, nobody moved.
I stood in the middle of my living room, staring at the door.
Then I turned toward Nathan.
“Sit down.”
He looked at me.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
He slowly sat on the couch.
Margaret remained standing.
I pointed toward the chair beside him.
“You too.”
She hesitated.
Then she sat.
I walked back to the kitchen table and opened my laptop.
I didn’t yell.
I didn’t cry.
Not anymore.
I had done enough of both.
Now I wanted answers.
I pulled up our joint bank account.
“I want to go through everything.”
Nathan rubbed his hands together.
“Sofia, we don’t have to do this tonight.”
“Yes.”
“We’re all exhausted.”
“I’ve been exhausted for eighteen months.”
He looked down.
I started scrolling.
January.
February.
March.
At first, the transactions looked ordinary.
Mortgage.
Electricity.
Groceries.
Insurance.
Gas.
Then I started noticing the transfers.
$400.
$700.
$500.
$1,200.
$300.
They were always going to the same personal account.
Nathan’s account.
I looked at him.
“What were these?”
“Bills.”
“What bills?”
“Mine.”
I stared at him.
“Your bills?”
He nodded.
I almost laughed.
“You told me you were contributing to the household.”
“I was.”
“No.”
I pointed at the screen.
“You were taking money from the household.”
He didn’t answer.
I kept scrolling.
There were cash withdrawals too.
Hundreds at a time.
Sometimes twice in the same week.
“What about these?”
“I needed cash.”
“For what?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember withdrawing $900?”
He shook his head.
“You don’t remember $600?”
Silence.
“You don’t remember $1,000?”
Nathan looked away.
I felt my stomach tighten.
Then I found the credit-card payments.
One after another.
Payments from our joint account were going toward credit cards that weren’t in my name.
I looked at him.
“How many cards do you have?”
He didn’t answer.
“How many, Nathan?”
“Four.”
I stared at him.
“Four?”
He nodded.
“And personal loans?”
His silence answered for him.
I closed my eyes.
“How many?”
“Two.”
Margaret suddenly spoke.
“He was trying to keep up with everything.”
I turned toward her.
“Everything?”
“He lost his job.”
“I know.”
“He was embarrassed.”
“I know.”
“He thought he could fix it before you found out.”
I looked at her.
“You knew?”
She looked down.
“I knew he was having problems.”
“When?”
“A while ago.”
“How long?”
She didn’t answer.
I stood.
“How long did you know my husband had lost his job?”
“About a year.”
A year.
I felt something inside me crack.
“You knew for a year.”
Margaret nodded slowly.
“And you still watched me work overtime.”
“He said he was going to get another job.”
“He told me he was working.”
“I know.”
The room went silent.
I looked at Nathan.
“So every morning when you left the house…”
He lowered his head.
“You weren’t going to work.”
“No.”
“You were pretending.”
“Yes.”
“And every time I asked how work was…”
“I lied.”
The honesty of that answer hurt more than another excuse would have.
I sat down.
“How much do you owe?”
Nathan stared at the floor.
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Estimate.”
