The last sheet was a flight itinerary. Two one way tickets, departing in three days, to a city I had never visited, with a hotel booking and a payment receipt with a staggering number printed in bold. Nothing about a return. My knees gave out and I sat on the floor, the pages trembling in my hands. Two years of hearing “we’re going to get through this together,” and he had mapped out a way to leave me?

Then I heard the front door open downstairs. Preston’s footsteps climbed fast, far too early for a workday, and his voice rang through the house, frantic. “Harper? Harper, where are you?” I had no time to slide the suitcase back. He appeared in the bedroom doorway, saw the open case and the papers in my hands, and the color drained from his face as he whispered, “You can read that?”