The officer asked him to move back through that portion slowly.
“I don’t know what that is,” Preston said.
“You brought the footage up,” Denise replied.
“I was looking for paperwork.”
“Your father keeps paperwork in the desk.”
“I said I was looking.”
The officer asked Preston whether he had ever used the ATM shown on the statement. Preston said he did not remember. Asked whether he had used his father’s card, he said the grocery account was the only account he handled.
I kept quiet. The camera did not establish every fact by itself, and I was not interested in turning suspicion into a new accusation. But it showed Preston entering the house on the Sundays when the withdrawals were made, while my own records placed me elsewhere or at home.
The officer reviewed the bank statement again.
“Mr. Preston, I need to ask you directly. Did you make these withdrawals?”
“No.”
“Did anyone else have access to your father’s card?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Who has access to the house?”
“Margie has a key.”
“During the times shown here?”
“She could have come back.”
Denise opened the agency records. “The app would not show that unless she clocked in. It does show when she left.”
“GPS isn’t perfect.”
“It records the location attached to the visit,” Denise said. “And there are dates when Margie was at her own address.”
Preston looked at me. “You expect everyone to believe you paid for his medication out of kindness?”
“I expect them to read the records.”
That was the sentence I had been nervous to say all morning. Kindness was not evidence. Receipts were.
The officer did not arrest Preston. Nothing happened that neatly. He took copies of the bank statement, the camera footage and the agency records, and he said the matter would be investigated further. The agency told me to leave the assignment while the investigation was pending.
That part hurt more than I expected.
I had spent four years in that house. I knew which questions Mr. Enright repeated, which coffee he would refuse, and how quickly the late afternoon could become difficult for him. Being told not to return made the accusation feel real, even after the records had begun to dismantle it.
I asked Denise whether Mr. Enright knew I was being removed.
“Not yet,” she said.
“Someone needs to explain it to him.”
“We will arrange coverage.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
Denise looked tired. “I know.”
When I went back to collect my things, Preston was not there. Another aide had arrived, and Mr. Enright sat at the table with his coffee untouched.
He looked at me and said, “Are you going home?”
“For now.”
“Did you do something wrong?”
“No.”
“Then why are you going?”