The bedroom door swings open and I see them before my brain can protect me from it. Quill. Delilah. My bed. My husband and my business partner and the sheets I picked out at that market in Lisbon three years ago. Delilah looks up first. She has dark, heavy-lidded eyes and the kind of cheekbones that make people assume she is kind, and she looks at me with something that is almost relief. Not guilt. Not panic. Relief, like I am a package that finally arrived. Quill scrambles upright. He is broad-shouldered and handsome in the way that used to make me proud to stand next to him, and right now he is clutching the sheet and saying, "Bea — it's not what it looks like." I laugh. It comes out of me clean and real and a little frightening even to me. "Okay," I say. I walk to the closet. I pull down the suitcase I bought for our honeymoon. I start filling it with the things that are mine and only mine — not the things we bought together, not the things he gave me. Just mine. It takes eleven minutes. I know because I count. Neither of them speaks again. Delilah has pulled the sheet up to her collarbone and she is watching me with those calm, patient eyes, and I think: she has been waiting for me to find out. She wanted me to find out. I file that thought away somewhere cold and keep packing. When the suitcase is full I wheel it through the hallway and I am almost at the front door when I pass Quill's study. The desk lamp is still on. His desk is covered in the usual debris — contracts, his planner, a coffee mug. And there, half under his planner, a manila folder. The label on the tab reads *Castellano* in Quill's handwriting, and below it a date: eight months ago. Eight months ago I was still planning our anniversary dinner. Eight months ago Delilah and I were pitching a new client together and she brought me coffee and said she didn't know what she'd do without me. I pick up the folder. I don't open it yet. I tuck it under my arm, wheel my suitcase through the front door, and close it quietly behind me. Not a slam. Quiet. Because I am not sad. I am collecting evidence. ---