“I give the orders here,” my mom’s colonel boyfriend yelled—until I calmly told him who I really was.

He thought he had broken me. He thought I was retreating to lick my wounds. But as I looked around the room, my eyes landed on my open bag. I saw the corner of a bank statement sticking out of a folder I had brought with me. Mark had made a mistake. He had gotten comfortable.

He thought he was untouchable because he was a man in a house of women. But he forgot one thing. I wasn’t just a woman. I was an investigator. If he was this insecure about his status, this desperate to prove he was a big shot, then he was hiding something. Men like Mark don’t just steal dignity, they steal money. I looked at the clock, 9 ki or p p.m. I would wake up at 0500.

While he was sleeping off his bourbon, I was going to find out exactly who Mark Hensley really was. The biological warfare was over. The financial audit was about to begin. The internal clock of a naval officer is a stubborn thing. It doesn’t care about jet lag, and it certainly doesn’t care about emotional exhaustion. Atro 500 hours, my eyes snapped open. The house was silent, save for the rhythmic drumming of the rain that hadn’t let up since I arrived.

I lay in bed for a moment, staring at the familiar popcorn ceiling of my childhood bedroom. For a split second, I felt safe. Then the memory of the night before, the cigar smoke, the insults, the way my mother shrank into herself came flooding back. I wasn’t going back to sleep. I needed coffee, black and strong.

I slipped out of bed, dressed in my gray navy PT gear, physical training shorts, and a t-shirt, and moved silently down the hallway. I didn’t turn on the lights. I knew every squeaky floorboard in this house. I had spent 18 years learning how to avoid them when sneaking out as a teenager.

But as I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw a light coming from the kitchen. I paused. My mother wasn’t an early riser anymore. Since dad passed, she usually slept until 7:00. I moved closer to the kitchen doorway, staying in the shadows. There, sitting at the small breakfast table, was Mark. He wasn’t watching TV. He wasn’t drinking.

He was hunched over a stack of papers, a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, a calculator in his hand. He looked like a general studying a battlefield map. But as I leaned in, I recognized the logo on the papers. It was the blue and red branding of my mother’s bank. I stepped into the light. Little early for accounting. Isn’t it, Mark? He jumped. He actually jumped. His hand instinctively slapped down over the paper he was reading, covering it.

He whipped his head around, his eyes wide before he composed himself into that familiar, arrogant smirk. “Jesus, Missy,” he breathed, taking off his glasses. You sneak around like a cat. Don’t they teach you to announce yourself in the Navy? They teach us stealth, I said, walking over to the coffee maker. I kept my back to him, listening to the rustle of papers as he quickly shuffled them into a folder.

What are you working on? Just household management, he said, his voice regaining its bluster. This house is falling apart, Aubrey. The wiring is shot. The insulation is garbage. I was just running the numbers to see what it would take to bring it up to code.

You know, modern standards, open concept, granite countertops, maybe knock down that wall between the dining room and the den. I turned around, leaning against the counter with my mug. That sounds expensive. Does mom want an open concept? Mark waved a hand dismissively. Maggie doesn’t know what she wants. She’s stuck in the 70s. I’m trying to increase the property value for her. It’s an investment.

You have to spend money to make money, right? He stood up, clutching the folder to his chest. I’m going to go check the truck. Make sure the windows are rolled up tight with this rain. He brushed past me, smelling of stale morning breath and old spice. He was in a hurry to get away from my questions. I waited until I heard the front door close. Then I moved.

I didn’t go after him. I went to the trash can. Mark was sloppy. Arrogant people usually are. Lying right on top of yesterday’s coffee grounds was a crumpled piece of paper. I fished it out and smoothed it flat on the counter. It was a receipt from the local auto dealership. A payment receipt. 2024 Ford F-150 Platinum. Monthly payment 845 Zuros.

That was a mortgage payment. That was an insane amount of money for a retired man living in his girlfriend’s house. But what froze my blood wasn’t the amount, it was the name on the billing address, Margaret Miller. My mother was paying for his truck. I felt a cold rage settle in my stomach, replacing the need for caffeine.

I folded the receipt and put it in my pocket. An hour later, Mark was snoring on the couch again. His morning check had evidently exhausted him. I found mom in the sun room watering her plants. She looked tired, the dark circles under her eyes prominent in the natural light. “Morning, Mom,” I said gently. “Oh, hi, honey.” she smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“There’s coffee.” “I had some,” I said. I decided to bypass the small talk. I pulled the crumpled receipt from my pocket and placed it on the potting bench next to her orchids. Mom, why is your name on Mark’s truck note? She froze, her watering can hovering in midair. She didn’t look at me. She looked at the receipt, her face flushing pink.

It’s It’s complicated, Aubrey, she stammered. Mark needed a reliable vehicle. His old car died, and you know, a man of his stature needs a truck. Why are you paying for it? I pressed, keeping my voice low but firm. I’m not paying for it forever, she insisted, finally looking at me defensive.

I just co-signed and I’m covering the payments temporarily, just until his pension gets sorted out. His pension? I asked. The investigator in me went on high alert. He’s a retired ’06 mom, a colonel with 25 years of service. His pension is automatic. It’s direct deposit. It doesn’t get unsorted. Well, that’s what he told me. mom said, ringing her haLS����