Chapter 9: The Folder on Her Desk

I didn't go inside Constance's house.

I told her I was going to get my things, and she said, "Of course, dear," and watched me walk out the gate.

Lawrence and I lived ten blocks away, in a brick townhouse on Marlborough Street.

I had a key. I let myself in and stood in the front hall in the dark.

Three years of my life were in that house.

I went up to the closet and counted what was mine.

It didn't take long.

Lawrence had bought the gowns. Lawrence had bought the shoes, the coats, the bags, and the jewelry in the velvet drawer.

What I had brought with me when I moved in fit in one duffel.

I put it on the bed and filled it.

A green cardigan with a hole in the elbow.

My mother's watch.

A paperback with a cracked spine that Roxy had given me for my twentieth birthday.

I zipped the bag.

It was nearly two in the morning when I heard the front door open.

I knew his step on the stairs.

He stopped in the bedroom doorway with his coat still on.

He looked at the duffel. Then he looked at me.

"They let her go," he said.

"Full panel. She's healthy. They gave her a sedative for her nerves, and she's asleep in the guest house."

"I'm glad she's well."

"Millicent."

"I said I'm glad."

He came in and shut the door behind him.

"You were right," he said. "About the eyes. About all of it. I saw it too. The paramedic told me later, in the hall."

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