I’m a waitress,” I said. “Counting money is part of my job.”

“Of the jar?”

“Of my tips. Every shift. For eleven years.” I picked up the notebook from the counter and held it up. “It’s all in here. And thirty-three more just like it.”

He stared at the notebook.

“So what?” he said. “So I counted wrong. So I’m a little off. I’ve got a lot on my mind, Lita. I work twelve-hour shifts.”

“Twenty-two weeks in a row,” I said. “Exactly forty. Not thirty-nine. Not forty-one. Forty.”

He muttered something about trust and returned to watching television.

I stood there in the kitchen doorway for a long time. He didn’t look at me again. He turned up the volume.

I went upstairs.

Ava was in her room with her door open, doing homework on her bed. She looked up when I passed.

“Mom? What’s going on? Why’s Dad mad?”

“He’s not mad, honey,” I said. “We’re just talking about money.”

She looked at me for a long moment. She’s sixteen. She’s not stupid.

“Okay,” she said.

Chapter Four: The Locker

The next evening, I left my tips in a sealed envelope inside my locker at work.

Gallagher’s has a little room in the back by the kitchen with eight metal lockers for the servers. Mine is number four. It has a combination lock my mother gave me when I was in high school.

I counted my tips that night like always. One hundred and eighty-four dollars. I wrote it in my notebook. Then I put the money in a plain white envelope and licked it shut and wrote the date on the front.

And I put it in my locker. And locked it.

I drove home with my apron pockets empty.

The jar sat on the counter that night with nothing new in it.

I did the same thing Wednesday morning. A lunch shift. Ninety-two dollars. Envelope. Date. Locker.

On Wednesday, Duane noticed.

He was standing at the counter when I came home, looking at the jar. It was still at the same level it had been on Monday.

“Where’s yesterday’s money?”

“Somewhere safe.”

He frowned.

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’m not contributing another dollar until you explain what’s missing.”

His face went red. Fast. All the way up to his hairline.

“You’re treating me like a thief,” he said. “In my own house. Like I’m some kind of criminal.”

“I’m not treating you like anything, Duane.”

“You’re hiding money from me.”

“I’m keeping my money in my locker,” I said. “Until somebody tells me where eight hundred and eighty dollars went.”

He accused me of treating him like a thief.

I told him I was asking for an explanation, not permission.

He stood there in the kitchen with his fists clenched. For a second, I thought he was going to yell. Duane doesn’t yell much. But when he does, the windows rattle.

He didn’t. He grabbed his keys off the hook by the door. He went out to his truck. I heard it start up and back out of the driveway too fast.

He didn’t come home until after midnight.