"Nearly eighteen thousand dollars," I said. "Spas. Designer stores. Restaurants. Drawn from the joint account Walter and I opened in 1998. The account I put your name on, Harrison, so you could help me if I got sick. The account you have been emptying while you lived in my house rent-free, ate my food, and allowed your wife to treat my birthday cake like a punchline."
Sloan's face went through a rapid sequence of expressions — shock, calculation, offense — and settled on offense, which was the safest.
"That is our money too," she said. "We're family. Harrison's name is on the account."
"Harrison's name is on the account," I agreed. "Harrison's access. Harrison's responsibility. Eighteen thousand dollars of my retirement cushion and my emergency fund and the money I was going to use to replace the roof next summer. Gone. In four months."
Harrison had not spoken. His tan from weekends I now understood had been funded by me seemed to drain under the kitchen light. He looked at the statement. He looked at Sloan. He looked at his hands.
"Mom. I can explain."
"I am counting on it."