“You took eleven thousand four hundred dollars,” I said. My voice dropped as the receptionist behind the high counter looked up from her computer. “My name was on that signature card. You cleared it out the day before you moved your things.”
Julian glanced at the receptionist, then leaned forward, his face tightening.
“The commercial lease on the warehouse had to be paid,” he whispered, his words tumbling out fast. “The landlord was going to sue both of us. I saved your credit, Cara.”
“You paid your own debts with my savings,” I said.
He looked at his watch again, his thumb rubbing the side of the metal casing.
“You always did have a vivid imagination when things got difficult, Cara,” he said.
“I have the bank statements from the morning of the transfer,” I said.
“Those statements do not show the back rent on the shop,” Julian said, his voice rising just enough to make the receptionist pause her typing. “You do not understand how commercial leases work. You never did.”
