Graham checked his phone. “They’ll have to look it up. We could settle the immediate problem first.”
“We’re looking it up,” Celia said.
It was the first time that evening she had interrupted him.
June was still available. Celia set up the call at the end of the table, and I moved beside her so I could see the screen. Graham stayed opposite us. I kept my hands in my lap because I didn’t want June to see me picking at a loose thread on my cuff.
Celia explained that we were trying to locate the youth production grant. She didn’t mention her request that I replace it.
“Our bookkeeper hasn’t recorded receipt,” she said.
“I haven’t been given a check to record,” I added. “I’m Nora Ellis.”
June asked us to wait while she checked the payment. Nobody in the office spoke. From the stage came a burst of laughter, followed by someone asking for quiet.
“I have the cleared-check image,” June said. “I’ll share it.”
The image opened on Celia’s screen. June enlarged it and pointed out the deposit information. The check had gone into the theater’s account three weeks earlier.
“Three weeks?” Celia asked.
June confirmed the date.
I leaned forward, reading it again. I had been preparing to defend the state of my kitchen table, my memory, every errand I’d run with theater papers in my bag. The check had already reached the bank.
I turned toward Graham.
“You said it never got deposited.”
He looked at the screen rather than at me. Celia put her notebook beside the laptop and wrote down the date.
Celia asked June to send the image, then ended the call. Graham reached for his jacket on the back of the chair.
“Stay,” Celia said. “We still don’t know where it went.”
She opened the bank portal with her own login. I turned away while she entered the password, an old courtesy that felt ridiculous with my bookkeeping access suspended and my brother sitting across from us. Then she angled the laptop so I could see.
The deposit was there. $4,800. Celia traced the row with her finger and scrolled down through the transactions after it.
“There,” I said.
An outgoing transfer for the same amount. Beside it was the description Reimbursement to Nora Ellis.
For a moment I only looked at my name. I knew I hadn’t received the money, but seeing it in the bank record made me want to open my own account and prove that too. Already I was preparing another defense.
“I didn’t get that,” I said.
Celia moved her finger off the screen. “Graham?”
“It’s a clerical mistake.” He put the jacket back. “The description. Those things get copied.”
“From what?” I asked.
“Let her finish looking, Nora.”
He used the patient voice he used when explaining a printer problem to someone who had pressed the wrong button. I nearly let it quiet me. Then Celia clicked the transfer.
The detail opened below the amount. There was a recipient field, separate from the description. It named Graham’s printing business.
I read the business name twice. I’d helped him carry boxes into that shop. I knew the sound of its front door catching on the floor. It was not some unfamiliar supplier I could ask him to identify.
Celia leaned closer. “This went to your business account.”
Graham rubbed a thumb along the edge of his phone.
“Why would a reimbursement to me go there?” I asked.
“There’s supporting paperwork.”
“Then show me.”
Celia was already opening her email. She searched his name with the amount, and a message appeared. I watched her open it. Graham was the sender. The attachment had arrived before he authorized the transfer, which Celia confirmed by comparing the email time with the bank detail.
“You sent me this,” she said.
“I sent you a lot of things.”
She opened the attachment without answering.
It was a reimbursement request. My full name appeared near the top, followed by a claim that I had personally advanced $4,800 for costumes for the youth production. Below that was an instruction saying I wanted the reimbursement paid to Graham’s printing business instead of to me.
Celia enlarged the page. Costume advance: $4,800. Farther down: Reimburse through Graham’s business at Nora’s request.
I put my hand against the table. There was a rough patch where someone had peeled off old tape. I pressed my thumb into it while I read the page again, looking for some part I recognized.
There wasn’t one.
“I didn’t write this. I didn’t ask for that payment.”
