The kitchen of our Brooklyn apartment was quiet when I arrived, the only sound the low hum of the refrigerator. I hung my damp wool coat in the hallway, the fabric heavy and smelling of the wet city streets.
I turned on the overhead light and set my keys on the counter. A small, crumpled slip of thermal paper lay tucked beneath the ceramic fruit bowl, looking as though it had been dropped in a hurry.
It was a printed confirmation receipt from the Grand Solmar Resort in Cabo San Lucas, dated for the coming weekend.
The total charge of four thousand eight hundred dollars had been billed to our joint corporate card.
Beneath the room rate, the guest names were printed in clear, bold text: Ryan Calloway and Savannah Brooks.
My fingers went cold as I held the thermal paper, my thumb rubbing the faded ink.
I walked into our bedroom and opened his chest of drawers. The top drawer, where he kept his luxury watches and gold cufflinks, was already half-empty.
The velvet trays that usually held his collection lay stacked in the corner, bare and gray.
