I took the subway.
Emersyn offered to drive me. I told her no. I needed the forty minutes of tunnel and noise to arrange myself before I arrived at the door of a place that used to be mine.
The compression sleeves were fresh that morning — white, tight to the elbow. I wore a button-down over them, loose at the cuffs. I carried a tote bag and a key I hadn't returned, because no one had asked for it back, and because I had learned, in the last two weeks, not to surrender anything I still had a right to hold.
The Tribeca penthouse had a private elevator. I rode it up the way I had a thousand times. The doors opened onto the foyer. I knocked, because I was still, apparently, that kind of person.
Monroe answered.
She was in a cream silk robe, her hair loose. She looked rested. She held a glass of ice water in her right hand, and for one half-second I thought nothing of it — people carry glasses, people answer doors, people —
The cold hit my arms like a blade.
She threw it full and clean, the whole glass, directly onto my bandages. The ice came with it. The water soaked through the compression sleeves in an instant and found the nerve endings underneath, the ones the burn specialist had explained to me with careful clinical language that still didn't prepare me for what raw nerves feel like when something cold reaches them without warning.
I stopped breathing.
Not from crying. I didn't cry. My lungs just — paused. A full, involuntary stop, like a machine that's been hit.
Monroe stepped back into the apartment. Her voice went soft and fractured, the specific register she kept in reserve for exactly this kind of moment.
"Alexander. Alexander, she just — I don't know what she wants, I was just —"
I stood in the doorway. Water dripped from my elbows onto the marble threshold. I watched it fall and focused on my breathing, in through the nose, slow, until my lungs remembered what they were for.
He came from the living room.
Alexander looked at the scene the way he always looked at scenes Monroe had arranged — quickly, with the assessment already complete before his eyes finished moving. He took in Monroe, trembling and retreating toward the window. He took in me, standing in the doorway with soaked bandages and an empty expression. His gaze moved across my arms for less than a second.
Less than a second.
"Lydia." His voice was the patient one. The one he used with difficult families in pre-op consultations. "You should have called first. Showing up like this —"
"I came for my documents," I said. "The home office safe. My passport, the financial records, my —"
"You provoked her by arriving unannounced."
I looked at him.
He believed it. That was the thing I had to stand there and absorb — he genuinely, completely believed the sentence he had just said. I could see it in the set of his jaw, the slight tilt of his chin. The posture of a reasonable man.
He went to the kitchen. I heard the sharp pull of a cabinet, the snap of a garbage bag shaken open. He moved through the apartment with efficiency, the way he moved through anything he wanted finished. He came back with the bag and set it at my feet in the doorway. Inside: a sweater I recognized, two books, a photograph in a frame, a pair of shoes.
Not the safe. Not my passport. Not the financial records.
Not a single document.
"Alex —"
"I think it's better if you go." He was already turning back toward Monroe.
He walked me to the curb the way you walk a guest to the door at the end of a party — not unkindly, not cruelly, just finished. He set the bag on the sidewalk. He looked at a point somewhere past my left shoulder.
Then he went back inside.
The door closed.
I stood on the sidewalk. The bag sat at my feet. My sleeves were still wet and the October air was doing what October air does.
I counted to thirty. Not because I needed to calm down. Because I wanted to be certain I was thinking clearly before I moved.
At thirty, I picked up the bag. I took out my phone.
Emersyn answered on the second ring.
"Come get me," I said.
---
That evening, I sat at her kitchen table with my notebook open to a clean page. The heading I wrote at the top took less than a second.
*Assets.*
I started with the joint checking account. Then the savings. Then the investment portfolio — the one I had seeded with eleven thousand dollars from my own account in the second year of our marriage, when Alexander's residency stipend didn't cover the gap. Then the supplemental cards. The insurance policies. The brokerage account he'd opened in both our names and never mentioned to me again, which I knew about because I had always, always read the mail.
The list ran two pages.
Emersyn set a mug of tea at my elbow and went back to the living room without a word. The radiator ticked. Outside, Brooklyn was quiet.
I worked until after midnight. My pen moved steadily down the page, column after column, number after number. The arithmetic of ten years, laid out in my own handwriting.
I had not gotten into the safe today.
I would not need to. Catherine Hale had a copy of everything that mattered.
I turned to a third page and kept writing.
