“Which account, Mrs. Navarro? The Elm Street or the Ridgewood?”

I didn’t say anything for a second. I thought she had the wrong person. I actually said, “I’m sorry, what?” and she repeated it, very politely, like it was a totally normal question.

Like asking if I wanted my receipt emailed or printed. I told her we only had one account. I told her we lived on Elm. She said, “Ma’am, your husband has had a Ridgewood account for six years.”

Six years. I remember standing in the kitchen and there was some cooking show on the TV in the other room that Marcus had left on before he went to work. Someone was explaining how to make a proper roux. I was just standing there with the phone against my ear thinking about a roux, which makes zero sense, but that is the detail my brain decided to hold onto.

I asked her what the Ridgewood account was for. She hesitated a little. I think she realized she was maybe getting into something, but I kept my voice very calm and I just asked her to tell me what she could. She said a woman comes in every other Tuesday. Picks up dress shirts, slacks, and children’s clothes. Pays cash every time. And then she said, almost like she was apologizing for it, “She calls him Daddy when she’s on the phone during pickup. I always figured it was just his nickname with her, you know. Didn’t think anything of it.”

Children’s clothes. I asked her to repeat that part. She said yes, children’s clothes. A christening gown came through about four years back, she remembered it because of the lace detailing and because it was expensive. And then school uniforms, regular rotation. Two sets. Size 5 and size 7.