He stared at me with hatred.
Then I finally understood the suitcase.
The one beside me when he returned.
Arthur had assumed it contained my clothes.
It did not.
It contained photocopies.
Trust documents.
Financial records.
Chloe’s hospital bracelet.
Her funeral program.
And every piece of evidence I had collected before he came home.
I had never been leaving.
I had been packing his life into a case for the people who would prosecute him.
Beatrice contacted me two days later.
She asked to meet.
We sat in the back corner of a nearly empty café.
She looked nothing like the woman who had entered my house on Arthur’s arm.
No expensive blouse.
No diamond bracelet.
No makeup.
“I didn’t know Chloe died,” she said.
I believed her.
Not because I trusted her.
Because I had seen her face when I told Arthur.
“I knew she was sick,” she continued.
