Chapter 3

I didn't send a message. Didn't call. Didn't cry.

I screenshotted every file. Then I spent an hour going through every remaining folder.

The recycle bin was a gold mine.

A folder called "receipt." Scanned hotel invoices, running from 2018 to 2023, twenty-one of them in all. Every one a double room.

A folder called "insurance_update." An education-fund policy for our daughter, life insurance for himself, critical illness, accident coverage. Nothing for me.

Nine years married to him, and my name had never once appeared on any of his beneficiary lists.

The next morning.

He got up early. I heard the water running in the bathroom, the buzz of the electric toothbrush, then his careful, quiet footsteps —— afraid to wake me. It was a habit he'd kept for years. Every morning he'd get up early and set a glass of warm water on the nightstand for me. He knew my mouth always went dry in the middle of the night.

The water sat on the nightstand. The temperature was just right.

"You up?" He leaned his head in, wearing a pale blue shirt, a tie in his hand. "I've got a meeting at noon, I can get back early this afternoon. What do you want for dinner?"

I looked at his face.

I'd known this man for ten years. We met in the university library. He sat across from me and had checked out a book I'd spent two weeks trying to get. I said, hey, could I borrow this to photocopy a few pages. He said don't bother photocopying, I'll scan the parts you need and send them to you.

The next day there was a PDF in my inbox. Scanned neatly, the table of contents even hyperlinked.

Back then I thought, how could there be a boy in this world so careful and so gentle about everything.

"Anything's fine," I said.

"Then how about that Southern place downstairs? Didn't you say the spicy baked fish last time was good?"

"Sure."

I picked up the glass. Took a sip. The temperature was just right.

"Hey," he said, knotting his tie as he headed for the door, his tone offhand. "Did you use my computer yesterday?"

"Why?"

"Nothing, the system seems to have auto-updated and restarted, one of my desktop shortcuts is gone."

"Didn't touch it."

"Oh. Must be the update, then. I'm off."

The door closed. The elevator chimed. Then the world went quiet.

I reached under the pillow and pulled out my phone. The screen was lit, showing an email drafts folder. The recipient was my mother's email. An account she hadn't logged into in ten years.

Time sent: 4:23 this morning.