Inside, the air smelled faintly of Ryan's cologne. A jacket hung over the back of a dining chair, and his coffee cup sat beside the sink. I went upstairs and opened the closet we shared. His side was meticulously arranged by color, the sleeves of his expensive shirts lined up like evidence of a man who cared deeply about appearances. My side contained work uniforms, comfortable clothes, and a pair of shoes with worn heels he had once suggested I replace because he thought they looked cheap.
I packed two suitcases. I took my passport, medical records, copies of my own tax returns, family photographs, and a small wooden box containing my father's watch. Naomi checked drawers with me, making sure I was taking my own things rather than business documents I might not be entitled to remove. When she found our wedding album beneath a stack of travel magazines, she held it up without comment.
I looked at the cover. "Leave it," I said.
She placed it back where she had found it. I did not hate the day captured inside it, and I did not want to destroy evidence that I had once been happy. I simply could not carry that version of us home with me that afternoon. There would be time later to decide what memories deserved a place in my future.
On the dresser stood a framed photograph from our tenth anniversary. Ryan had taken me to a restaurant overlooking the city and surprised me with roses. I remembered how he held my hand across the table and told me that no matter how busy the company became, he would never forget who had supported him when there was nothing in the bank. I stared at the picture, trying to reconcile that man with the one who had signed away my consent and booked an anniversary suite for someone else.
"You don't have to solve every contradiction today," Naomi said from the doorway.
"I keep thinking I should have known."
"You knew some things were wrong. You didn't know what he was hiding. Those are different facts."
I turned the photograph facedown. This time I did not do it because I wanted to avoid the truth. I did it because I had looked at the picture long enough.
Before leaving, we stopped near Ryan's home office. The door was closed, and I could see through the glass panel that the desk was almost completely clear. Ryan normally worked surrounded by contracts and blueprints. The emptiness suggested he had removed something before leaving for the airport, though it proved nothing by itself. I resisted the urge to search the desk.
"The investigators and the lawyers will handle whatever belongs in there," Naomi said, reading my expression.
"I know."
She looked at me. "Do you?"
"I'm learning," I answered.