“Then you should have gone to the police, not my mother’s bank,” I said.

“I love you,” he pleaded. “Please.”

“Do not lie to me anymore,” I said.

I hung up the phone.

I blocked the number.

The kitchen was quiet again.

I took a sip of my tea.

It was still warm.

I looked back at the real estate listings on my screen.

I found a small cottage three hours north, right on the edge of a lake.

It was surrounded by tall pine trees and had a gravel path leading to the water.

I saved the listing to my favorites.

I would call the broker tomorrow.

I spent the rest of the afternoon packing my clothes into suitcases.

I did not touch Ethan’s things.

I left his suits hanging in the closet like empty shells.

I packed my mother’s old photo albums, her jewelry box, and the small painting of her garden that she had made before she got sick.

These were the only things that mattered.

By evening, the rain had stopped.

The sky turned a deep, bruised purple.