I never questioned any of it.
Why would I?
Emily and I had been married six years.
I knew her habits like my own handwriting.
She read the last page of every contract before the first.
She initialed every page in blue ink, a tiny circled E, even on grocery lists, even on birthday cards.
I used to tease her about it.
“It’s a signature,” she would say. “Nobody can tell me I didn’t read it.”
When I asked about the photos, she said quietly, “That’s my cousin Rick.”
When I asked about the necklace, she said, “I never touched it.”
When I asked about the money, she looked at me for a long moment and said, “Michael, do you hear yourself?”
I did not.
I signed the papers on a Tuesday in April.
She left the house with one suitcase and her mother’s quilt.
She did not slam the door.
