Inside was a pile of white sheets, stiff and stained with a dark, brownish-red substance.

My stomach sickened instantly.

I recognized those sheets.

They were the high-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets from our bed.

The sheets I had been lying on when my uterus began to hemorrhage, before Ryan walked out the front door.

“Is that blood?” Officer Miller asked, leaning closer.

“Yes,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “That’s mine.”

Thomas knelt down beside the bag, his paramedic training visible in the way he studied the stains.

“These were stuffed in here to hide them,” Thomas said, his voice tight. “He tried to clean up before he left for his trip.”

“He told the hospital staff he didn’t know I was sick,” I said, the tears finally spilling over my eyelashes. “He told his mother he thought I was just sleeping.”

“He lied,” Thomas said, looking up at the police officer. “He saw her bleeding. He knew she was dying, and he covered it up so he could leave for his birthday weekend without any delays.”

Officer Miller took a photograph of the duffel bag and the sheets inside.