Now, finally, Paul stops moving. He reaches for my hands, holding them firmly in both of his. “Do you trust me, Charlotte?”

I don’t have to think about it, not even for a second. I nod.

“I’m going to find Jax.” I open my mouth to tell him Jax was looking for him, but Paul stops me. “When I get back, you and I are going to sit down, and I am going to tell you everything. I promise. But right now I really don’t have time.” He releases me, hefting the backpack onto his shoulders. “There’s money in the safe. The code’s 3-0-3-1-9. If you forget, I wrote it on the inside flap of the Le Corbusier book.”

I flinch, and automatically, my hand goes to his ring on my finger. I feel the weight of it, the significance. The day Paul slid it over my knuckle was the day I swore to never give anyone, least of all Paul, reason to think I only want him for his wealth. Yes, I like living in a pretty house. No, I never have to choose between going cold or going hungry again. But there are enough people in this town who think I traded my morals for money, and it would kill me if Paul were one of them.

“Paul, I don’t want your money.”

He stops, turns back. “That’s not what I—Come on, Charlotte. You know that’s not what I meant. What’s mine is yours is ours. You work just as hard as I do for that money. It’s there for both of us, just in case.”

I ignore the first part, even though I don’t know. Not really. It’s true I work hard, but we both know I wouldn’t have a job if not for Paul. I am a guest here, living off the back of my all-too-generous husband.

But a more pressing point is, what would Paul do if I held out my hand right now? Would he smile and slap some bills in my palm? Would it make me a different person in his eyes? Paul once told me he admired me for the way I worked two jobs at sixteen, paying the bills for Chet and me, pulling us both up by the bootstraps. He said he loved how my penniless past shaped me into a person he wished he could be.