I call Greenwood Cemetery at nine a.m. on Monday.

The administrative office opens at eight-thirty. I know this because I've been visiting my mother's grave on the third of every month for two years, and I've passed the office window enough times to memorize the hours posted on the door.

The woman who answers sounds tired. I give her my name and the plot number. I tell her I'm the owner. I tell her I need a copy of the security footage from last Tuesday night.

"For what purpose?" she asks.

"Legal documentation," I say.

There's a pause. Then she says she'll need to check with her supervisor.

I wait.

She comes back on the line three minutes later and tells me I can pick up a copy on Wednesday. I thank her and hang up.

I open our joint bank account on my laptop. I scroll back through the transactions. Chase is careful with money — methodical, even — but he's also arrogant. He doesn't think I check.

I find it on Thursday, two days before the cemetery incident. A wire transfer. Four thousand dollars. The memo line is blank, but the recipient account is registered to a contracting LLC in Queens.

I screenshot it. I save it to an encrypted folder on a cloud drive I opened under my maiden name. I label the folder "Documentation."

I pull my phone records next. The call from Marco came in at eleven forty-three p.m. I screenshot the log. I add it to the folder.

I work through my lunch break. No one at the office asks where I am. I eat a protein bar at my desk and keep my door half-closed.

On Wednesday, I leave work at four and take the subway to Greenwood. The administrative office is a small brick building near the main gate. The woman at the desk recognizes me. She hands me a USB drive in a manila envelope and asks me to sign a release form.

I sign. I leave.

I don't watch the footage until I'm home. Chase is working late — a patrol shift that runs until midnight. I sit at the kitchen table with my laptop and plug in the drive.

The footage is black and white, grainy, but clear enough. The timestamp reads 11:38 p.m. The camera angle captures the access road and the vault. I watch the white van pull up. I watch two men step out with tools. I watch Chase walk into the frame, phone in hand, gesturing.

I watch myself arrive six minutes later.

I watch myself collapse.

I save the file. I add it to the folder. I close the laptop.

I don't cry. I've already done that.

On Friday, Victor Salinas emails me the divorce papers. They're clean, straightforward, equitable. I print two copies at a FedEx Office on my lunch break. I slide them into a folder and bring them home.

Chase gets back at six-thirty. He's in a good mood. He asks what I want for dinner. I tell him I already ate.

He opens the fridge and pulls out leftovers. He heats them in the microwave and sits down at the kitchen island.

I set the folder in front of him.

He glances at it, then at me. "What's this?"

"Divorce papers."

He laughs. It's a short sound, genuinely confused, like I've told a joke he doesn't understand.

"Sienna—"

"I need you to sign them," I say.

He shakes his head. He's still smiling, but it's tighter now. "You're overreacting."

"I'm not."

"Lainey didn't mean any harm." His voice is patient. Reasonable. "She wanted to pay her respects. That's all."

I don't answer.

He stands up and walks to the bedroom. He comes back a minute later with a small velvet box. He sets it on the counter between us.

"Open it," he says.

I don't move.

He opens it for me. Inside is a diamond bracelet. Delicate. Expensive. The kind of thing I would have loved three weeks ago.

"I made reservations for tomorrow night," he says. "That new place in Tribeca. The one everyone's talking about."

I pull out my phone. I search the restaurant. I open the menu.

Peanut-crusted salmon. Peanut satay. Peanut brittle dessert.

I close the menu. I close the jewelry box. I slide both back across the counter.

"I'm allergic to peanuts," I say.

He blinks. "What?"

"Peanuts. Severe allergy. Anaphylaxis. I've told you a dozen times."

His face shifts. Not guilt. Irritation. Like I'm being difficult on purpose.

"I'll call and ask them to adjust the menu," he says.

"Don't."

His phone lights up on the counter. Lainey's name fills the screen.

He glances at it. Then at me.

"We'll finish this conversation later," he says.

He picks up the phone and walks out the front door.

I sit alone in the apartment. I count to sixty. Then I count again.

Eleven minutes pass.

I open my laptop. I pull up my realtor's contact information. I compose an email.

*Rachel — I need to list the apartment. Market rate. Immediate availability. Let me know when you can come by for photos. — Sienna*

I hit send.

I close the laptop.

I don't feel sad. I don't feel angry.

I feel efficient.

The video arrives on Thursday morning.

I'm at my desk, reviewing a budget proposal, when my phone lights up. A text from an unknown number. No words. Just a video file.

I open it.

The footage is shaky, handheld, shot in someone's living room. There are lights strung across the mantle. A Christmas tree in the corner. I recognize the space immediately — Chase's uncle's house in Westchester. The Hamilton family uses it for every holiday gathering.

Lainey is center frame, laughing at something someone off-camera just said. She's wearing a red sweater. Her hand rests on Chase's arm. Chase's aunt walks past with a tray of cookies and smiles at her. His cousin hands her a glass of wine.

She looks like she belongs there.

The video is twenty-three seconds long. The caption underneath reads: *They already think of me as family.*

I watch it once.

Then I set my phone down on the desk and stare at the screen until it goes dark.

I don't call Chase. I don't text him. I don't compose a furious message and delete it three times before sending.

I open my phone settings. I block his number. I block his email. I block him on every social media platform I can think of. I do it methodically, one after another, without pausing.

When I'm done, I open my contacts and call Rachel, my realtor.

She picks up on the second ring.

"Sienna," she says. "I was just about to call you. We have an offer."

"Already?"

"Cash buyer. No contingencies. They saw the photos yesterday and want to close in two weeks."

I don't hesitate. "Accept it."

There's a pause. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Okay," she says. "I'll send over the paperwork this afternoon."

I thank her and hang up.

I open a new browser tab and book a one-way flight to Seattle. Friday afternoon. Nonstop. I use miles I've been saving for a vacation Chase and I never took.

I close the laptop.

I don't feel sad. I don't feel triumphant.

I feel like I'm following a checklist I wrote in another life.

That night, I pack a single suitcase. Clothes for two weeks. My laptop. Chargers. The framed photo of my mother from my desk. I leave everything else.

The furniture can stay. The dishes. The wedding gifts we never used. The bracelet Chase tried to give me is still sitting in its velvet box on the kitchen counter. I leave it there.

I ship two boxes of work files to the Seattle office on Friday morning. The woman at the post office asks if I need insurance. I say no. It's just paper.

I take a cab to JFK at noon.

The airport is crowded. I check my suitcase, clear security, buy a bottle of water I don't drink. I sit at the gate and watch people.

A couple argues quietly near the window. A mother tries to calm a crying toddler. A man in a suit types furiously on his phone, jaw tight.

I board when they call my zone. I find my seat — window, near the back. I stow my bag overhead and buckle in.

The plane takes off at three-fifteen.

I don't look back.

Diane Hamilton pulls up to the apartment building at ten a.m. on Saturday.

She's here to drop off a casserole — the kind of thing she used to bring Sienna when Chase worked late shifts. She parks on the street and walks into the lobby with the dish balanced in her hands.

The doorman looks up. He recognizes her.

"Mrs. Hamilton," he says. Then he hesitates.

"Is Sienna upstairs?" Diane asks.

The doorman shifts his weight. "Ma'am, Mrs. Hamilton — the younger Mrs. Hamilton — she moved out. Two weeks ago. The unit sold."

Diane stares at him.

"Sold," she repeats.

"Yes, ma'am. New owners took possession yesterday. They're moving in now."

Diane turns and looks toward the elevator. Through the glass doors, she can see two men in work uniforms directing a sofa through the lobby.

She sets the casserole dish on the doorman's desk without a word.

She walks back outside.

The street is loud. Traffic. Construction. Someone's car alarm going off three blocks away.

Diane stands on the sidewalk and pulls out her phone. She opens her contacts. Chase's name is at the top of her favorites list.

She doesn't call him.

She stands there for a long time, phone in hand, staring at the building.

Then she gets back in her car and drives home.

She doesn't call Chase that night either.

She sits in her kitchen with a cup of tea and thinks about the last time she saw Sienna. It was three weeks ago. Sienna had come by with groceries — Diane had mentioned she was low on coffee, and Sienna showed up the next day with a bag from the good place on Amsterdam.

They sat in the kitchen and talked about nothing important. Work. The weather. A movie Diane wanted to see.

Sienna had smiled. She'd looked tired, but she'd smiled.

Diane sets down her tea.

She thinks about her son. About the night his father died. About Lainey's name, spoken like a prayer, like a curse.

She thinks about Margaret Morales, who she met exactly twice. Once at the wedding. Once at the hospital, the day before the bone marrow procedure.

Margaret had shaken her hand and said, "Take care of them."

Diane had promised she would.

She picks up her phone.

She opens her messages. She scrolls to Chase's name.

She types: *We need to talk.*

She hits send.

Then she sets the phone down and waits.