I didn’t have many clothes.

Just the long-sleeved shirts, the high-collared sweaters, the loose jeans.

I began to pack them, folding them neatly.

Each shirt represented a day I had hidden myself away.

Now, they were just fabric.

Chloe appeared in the doorway, her eyes red.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“I’m leaving,” I said.

“Tonight?”

“Yes,” I said. “There is nothing for me here.”

“But the police,” she said. “They will want to talk to you. They need your statement.”

“They have my statement,” I said. “I gave it to them yesterday.”

Chloe gasped.

“You called them?”

“I found the bank statements last month,” I said, placing a green sweater into the bag.

“I went to the station on Tuesday.”

She stared at me, her mouth slightly open.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I couldn’t,” I said. “You would have tried to protect them.”

“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t.”

“You loved the life they built,” I said gently. “I don’t blame you for that. But I couldn’t risk it.”

I zipped the suitcase shut.

The sound was sharp and final.