I had not cried when I saw the lipstick mug.
I had not cried when my key failed.
But that photograph broke me.
Mark stepped forward.
I held up a hand.
“No.”
He stopped.
I set the frame carefully on the bed.
Then I turned to Denise.
“I want everything I’m entitled to.”
Her red mouth curved.
“There she is.”
I looked around the room.
The bed where Evan had slept while I vomited after treatments.
The dresser we bought secondhand and painted white.
The curtains I hemmed by hand because money had been tight then, before promotions and better suits and Lena.
“I want the house sold,” I said. “I want half of every account. I want reimbursement for whatever he spent on her from marital funds. I want my medical coverage secured. And I want his text entered into the record.”
Denise nodded.
“Done.”
Mark said nothing, but when I finally looked at him, his eyes held something fierce and bright.
Not pity.
Respect.
That evening, Evan showed up at the recovery residence.
He should not have been able to get past the front desk, but Evan had always been charming when charm benefited him. He wore the navy coat I had bought him for our anniversary. His hair was perfect. His face was arranged into wounded nobility.
I was in the lounge, reading beneath a lamp, when I heard his voice.
“Jessica.”
My body reacted before my mind did.
A cold rush. A tightening. A desire to apologize for existing.
Then I remembered my scar.
You lived.
I closed the book.
“What are you doing here?”
He approached slowly, hands open, like I was a wild animal.
“I needed to see you.”
“No.”
He flinched.
