Chloe and I stood in the silence he left behind.
She was the first to move.
She walked to the kitchen counter, opened a drawer, and pulled out a phone in a plain black case.
She set it on the counter between us without a word.
“Is that it?” I said.
“That’s it.”
I looked at it.
“Have you gone through it?”
“Enough of it.” She pulled out a chair and sat down, suddenly looking exhausted.
“Sit down, Karen.
Please.”
I sat.
“I found it in his coat pocket three weeks ago,” she said.
“I thought it was a work phone.
He travels for work sometimes — or I thought he did.” She pressed her lips together.
“I charged it.
It wasn’t password protected.
I don’t know if he forgot or if he just never thought I’d find it.”
“What was on it?”
She looked at the table.
“Messages.
Going back almost two years.” A pause.
“To more than one woman.”
I didn’t say anything.
“I confronted him,” she said.
“He told me I was overreacting.
That they were clients.
That I was insecure and immature.” She laughed — a short, hollow sound.
“Immature.
I’m twenty-four years old and he told me I was immature for not understanding.”
“What did you do?”
“I kept the phone.” She looked up at me.
“And then I started looking at the finances.
I’d never paid much attention before.
He handled everything.
He said it was easier that way.” Her voice tightened.
“I found the folder about a week later.
In a box in the back of the closet.
Behind his old tax files.”
I thought about the folder still in my hands.
About my name on the first page.
“Why is my name in here?” I said.
Chloe was quiet for a moment.
“There are documents in there from your divorce.
I think he kept them as reference.
