The toothbrush Elias kept at my apartment.
His handwriting on grocery lists.
The way he used to warm my hands between his palms in movie theaters because I was always cold.
Had he hated those moments? Or had he simply been able to perform tenderness the way some people performed music, beautifully and without meaning?
At nine that night, I opened our wedding album preview. The photographer had already sent ten images.
There we were beneath the arch, my veil moving in the wind, Elias looking at me as if the world had narrowed to my face.
I enlarged the photo until his eyes filled the screen.
I searched for greed.
I found devotion.
That was worse.
Because either I could not tell the difference, or devotion and greed could wear the same expression.
On the third day, Elias came to the apartment.
Rebecca had arranged for my cousin Nathan and two movers to meet me there so I could collect clothes, documents, and personal items. My father wanted to send staff, but I refused. I needed to walk through those rooms once before they became evidence in someone else’s file.
