Trying to convince myself there had to be a reasonable explanation, I called the hotel and pretended to be his assistant.
The receptionist answered without hesitation.
“Of course,” she said. “Mr. Whitaker stays with us regularly. Would you like to reserve his usual room?”
My heart sank.
The following evening, I placed every receipt on the kitchen table before Troy walked through the door.
“What are these?” I asked.
He stared at them for several seconds before quietly saying,
“It’s not what you think.”
“Then tell me what it is.”
Instead, he became defensive.
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