Chloe ran back inside, sobbing, and I could hear her through the open door pulling things off hangers by the armful, drawers slamming, the frantic scramble of a person grabbing whatever her hands landed on.

Julian moved more slowly, dazed, disappearing inside and coming back out with a single half-zipped duffel bag, and then he simply stood on the driveway in his open silk robe and watched the locksmith work, watched the man drill the old cylinder out of the front door of the house Julian had spent two years pretending was his.

I did not yell at them.

I did not gloat.