Chapter 4

I took each item out, unfolded it, smoothed it flat, and placed it in the brazier.

The flames licked at the corners of the clothes, curling the fabric and turning it black. The plaid shirt burned the slowest. One of the buttons at the collar snapped in the fire, shot to the ground, rolled twice, and came to a stop.

The memorial lamp in front of Grandma Yvette's portrait flickered.

I looked at her photograph. It had been taken during the New Year two years earlier. Grandma Yvette had been sitting in the courtyard, shelling nuts, her face creased with a smile.

That day, she'd held Houston's hand and said, "Houston, I'm entrusting my granddaughter to you. You have to treat her well."

Houston had crouched in front of her, smiling. "Don't worry, Grandma. Danielle has me."

I put the SIM card back into my phone and turned it on. I didn't look at Houston's messages again.

Instead, I opened my best friend Elina Lynn's chat and sent her a message.

[Help me look into something. Where exactly was Houston during the holiday?]

Elina replied forty minutes later: [I asked my husband to check with someone at Houston's company. Houston never went to Daim during those days. Heather posted that sleeper ticket on social media to make it look like she'd gone, but she never even boarded the train. The chestnuts were bought through a local delivery service, too.]

[So what was he doing?]

[Preparing your wedding anniversary celebration. He booked the most expensive private dining restaurant in the entire city and invited his whole department. I heard he even ordered a diamond ring.]

I stared at those lines on the screen for a long time.

Our fifth wedding anniversary.

He remembered.

On the rainy night when I was cheated out of my money by a ticket scalper, in the early hours when I knelt on the floor of the train station waiting hall to transfer data, and at the very moment I received Aunt Grace's call and learned that Grandma Yvette could no longer call my name...

He was trying on rings. Choosing red wine. Giving the restaurant instructions for the decorations.

He thought that if he ignored me for a few days and then surprised me with a grand celebration, I'd do what I'd done every time before. I'd throw myself into his arms in tears and tell him, "I forgive you."

I put down my phone and took a blank divorce petition out of my bag. I'd had it printed at a local print shop while passing through town on my way home.

My hand was steady as I signed it.

For the date, I wrote today's date, the seventh day after Grandma Yvette's death.

At seven o'clock sharp on our anniversary evening, the lights on the second floor of the private dining restaurant glowed brightly.

Houston sat at the head of the table, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit. Imported red wine stood on the table, and our wedding photos were projected onto the wall. The ring box was tucked beneath his napkin. Every so often, he reached over to touch it, making sure it was still there.

His colleagues arrived one after another, teasing him as they took their seats.

"Houston, your wife is going to cry when she sees all this tonight!"

Heather sat in a corner wearing a new dress, her phone pointed toward the entrance. "Boss, I'll record it for you. The moment your wife walks through that door is going to be the sweetest video on the entire internet!"

Houston smiled and glanced at his watch.

7:15.

The door handle moved. He sprang to his feet on instinct and straightened his cuffs.

The door opened.

But the person who walked in was a delivery courier wearing a yellow uniform, carrying a paper bag. "May I ask who Mr. Houston Rodgers is?"

The laughter gradually died away.

Houston froze for a moment, then walked over and took the bag.

The first thing his hand touched was a picture frame. It was black with a narrow border, the most common standard design sold at funeral supply stores.

Inside was a black-and-white memorial portrait. Grandma Yvette sat in the courtyard, shelling nuts, her face creased with a smile.

His hands began to tremble.

Beneath the frame was a document.

A divorce paper, its black text stark against the white paper. Danielle Delacruz's name was neatly written on the line for the petitioner.

The date beside her signature was three days earlier.

The second floor fell silent, leaving only the low hum of the air conditioner.

The courier scratched his head, as though he'd just remembered something. "Oh, right. The lady asked me to pass along a message. She said...

"The seventh day after Grandma's death and your wedding anniversary landed on the same day, so she decided not to wish you a happy marriage after all."