In the bedroom, I found my mother’s knitted blanket folded at the foot of the bed.
I wrapped it around my shoulders and sat beside the window, watching the dark water move under a thin wash of moonlight.
Alexander called eleven times before midnight.
I did not answer.
The next morning, his first message was brief.
I need to know you’re safe.
The second came minutes later.
I know I hurt you. Please let me explain.
I read both and put the phone facedown.
There were more messages, but none changed what I had seen: his hand fastening the necklace around Olivia’s throat while the room applauded.
I had spent months telling myself that his gifts to her were business decisions, that the apartment was
temporary, that the late calls were necessary, that the distance between us was a season rather than a choice.
At the auction, the explanations had fallen away.
