I laughed out loud on the sidewalk.

I opened the smart-home app on the tablet — the camera I’d put in the living room years ago to watch Margaret while I cooked — and settled onto the motel bed to watch the feed.

At eight, the front door opened. Marcus dragged his leather luggage into the dark entryway.

“Elena? Why are the lights off?” His voice came through the speaker. He hit the switch, and the empty living room lit up.

I watched his face change as he registered what was missing — my coats, my shoes, every trace of me. He went into the dining room.

There, in the center of the table, was the divorce petition with my ring on top of it.