The video arrives on Thursday morning.
I'm at my desk, reviewing a budget proposal, when my phone lights up. A text from an unknown number. No words. Just a video file.
I open it.
The footage is shaky, handheld, shot in someone's living room. There are lights strung across the mantle. A Christmas tree in the corner. I recognize the space immediately — Chase's uncle's house in Westchester. The Hamilton family uses it for every holiday gathering.
Lainey is center frame, laughing at something someone off-camera just said. She's wearing a red sweater. Her hand rests on Chase's arm. Chase's aunt walks past with a tray of cookies and smiles at her. His cousin hands her a glass of wine.
She looks like she belongs there.
The video is twenty-three seconds long. The caption underneath reads: *They already think of me as family.*
I watch it once.
Then I set my phone down on the desk and stare at the screen until it goes dark.
I don't call Chase. I don't text him. I don't compose a furious message and delete it three times before sending.
I open my phone settings. I block his number. I block his email. I block him on every social media platform I can think of. I do it methodically, one after another, without pausing.
When I'm done, I open my contacts and call Rachel, my realtor.
She picks up on the second ring.
"Sienna," she says. "I was just about to call you. We have an offer."
"Already?"
"Cash buyer. No contingencies. They saw the photos yesterday and want to close in two weeks."
I don't hesitate. "Accept it."
There's a pause. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
"Okay," she says. "I'll send over the paperwork this afternoon."
I thank her and hang up.
I open a new browser tab and book a one-way flight to Seattle. Friday afternoon. Nonstop. I use miles I've been saving for a vacation Chase and I never took.
I close the laptop.
I don't feel sad. I don't feel triumphant.
I feel like I'm following a checklist I wrote in another life.
That night, I pack a single suitcase. Clothes for two weeks. My laptop. Chargers. The framed photo of my mother from my desk. I leave everything else.
The furniture can stay. The dishes. The wedding gifts we never used. The bracelet Chase tried to give me is still sitting in its velvet box on the kitchen counter. I leave it there.
I ship two boxes of work files to the Seattle office on Friday morning. The woman at the post office asks if I need insurance. I say no. It's just paper.
I take a cab to JFK at noon.
The airport is crowded. I check my suitcase, clear security, buy a bottle of water I don't drink. I sit at the gate and watch people.
A couple argues quietly near the window. A mother tries to calm a crying toddler. A man in a suit types furiously on his phone, jaw tight.
I board when they call my zone. I find my seat — window, near the back. I stow my bag overhead and buckle in.
The plane takes off at three-fifteen.
I don't look back.
Diane Hamilton pulls up to the apartment building at ten a.m. on Saturday.
She's here to drop off a casserole — the kind of thing she used to bring Sienna when Chase worked late shifts. She parks on the street and walks into the lobby with the dish balanced in her hands.
The doorman looks up. He recognizes her.
"Mrs. Hamilton," he says. Then he hesitates.
"Is Sienna upstairs?" Diane asks.
The doorman shifts his weight. "Ma'am, Mrs. Hamilton — the younger Mrs. Hamilton — she moved out. Two weeks ago. The unit sold."
Diane stares at him.
"Sold," she repeats.
"Yes, ma'am. New owners took possession yesterday. They're moving in now."
Diane turns and looks toward the elevator. Through the glass doors, she can see two men in work uniforms directing a sofa through the lobby.
She sets the casserole dish on the doorman's desk without a word.
She walks back outside.
The street is loud. Traffic. Construction. Someone's car alarm going off three blocks away.
Diane stands on the sidewalk and pulls out her phone. She opens her contacts. Chase's name is at the top of her favorites list.
She doesn't call him.
She stands there for a long time, phone in hand, staring at the building.
Then she gets back in her car and drives home.
She doesn't call Chase that night either.
She sits in her kitchen with a cup of tea and thinks about the last time she saw Sienna. It was three weeks ago. Sienna had come by with groceries — Diane had mentioned she was low on coffee, and Sienna showed up the next day with a bag from the good place on Amsterdam.
They sat in the kitchen and talked about nothing important. Work. The weather. A movie Diane wanted to see.
Sienna had smiled. She'd looked tired, but she'd smiled.
Diane sets down her tea.
She thinks about her son. About the night his father died. About Lainey's name, spoken like a prayer, like a curse.
She thinks about Margaret Morales, who she met exactly twice. Once at the wedding. Once at the hospital, the day before the bone marrow procedure.
Margaret had shaken her hand and said, "Take care of them."
Diane had promised she would.
She picks up her phone.
She opens her messages. She scrolls to Chase's name.
She types: *We need to talk.*
She hits send.
Then she sets the phone down and waits.
