Page 59 of Wreckage and Rain

That doesn't mean anything by itself. Summer is in Savannah. She isn't supposed to be home until tomorrow. The house should be quiet. I am supposed to be the only person in it.

But it is a different kind of quiet than I left it in. Something is off and I can't name what.

I drop my keys in the ceramic dish by the door. I walk through the kitchen. The coffeemaker is empty. Her mug hangs on the hook beside it where she left it before Savannah.

I open the fridge for a glass of water and the water bottle I expect to be there isn't there. Neither is the half-empty thing of cold brew she keeps in the door.

I close the fridge.

I walk through the living room. Up the stairs. Slowly. Because something is climbing my throat.

The bedroom door is open.

I see them before I see anything else.

Two rings on the dresser. Wedding band. Engagement ring.

There is a piece of paper folded under them.

I don't pick it up yet. I don't move toward it. I look around the room first. I am not ready for what the paper says.

Closet doors open. Half her clothes are gone. The big suitcase is gone. Her laptop is gone. The leather notebook I gave her on ourfirst anniversary is gone. The dresser drawer where she keeps her socks is partially open and emptied.

The small framed photos that lived on her side of the dresser. The one of us at King's Diner. Our wedding portrait. The beach trip when she made me wear the stupid hat. They are gone from the dresser. I look around. They are in the wastebasket by her side of the bed. Frames intact. Faces facing down.

I sit on the edge of the bed.

I pick up the piece of paper.

Her handwriting.

Guess I got my answer.

My lawyer will be in touch.

Don't contact me. Don't look for me.

PS. I left my cocktail dresses in the closet, Cheyenne may need them.

I read it three times. I read it like the words might change if I look hard enough.

It doesn't.

The room is too quiet.

She isn't coming home.

I can't make my hands stop shaking.

The smell on my collar is the smell of another woman. It is on me, in this room, in our bed.

I get to my feet. The room tilts. I sit back down. My chest is wrong. My breath is short.

It is happening. It is happening right now. My wife is gone. My mind runs through every conversation she has had with me recently. Every conversation where I made her feel like she was crazy because she was seeing something I couldn't. Every single thing is falling into place now.

I can't move.

I find my phone in my jacket pocket. Plug it into the charger by the bed. The screen lights up with a wall of notifications.