Page 77 of His

Warmth blooms over my chest. I smile, rest my head on his shoulder.

Together, we watch the sun set.

Forty-Nine

Sabine

We’ve left the master bedroom, Valerie’s room, for last, neither of us wanting to spend the day wallowing in the darkness that comes with that room.

“I’ll do the bed and nightstand; you do the bathroom,” I say, “then we’ll do the closet together.”

“Deal.”

I strip the bed as Astor disappears into the bathroom. I can smell her on the sheets, a rose scent tinged with antiseptic.

My stomach drops, a creepy sensation like fingernails flutters up my spine. Immediately, I want to leave, I know we can’t until everything is packed up, and I’m not coming back.

Just get it done.

After haphazardly folding the bedding and shoving it in a box, I shift my focus to the nightstand.

The drawers are filled with used tissues and prescription pill bottles, and a dozen over-the-counter supplements. A pen and notepad, random cotton balls. Hand lotion, nail clippers, an eye mask. Once the drawers are emptied, I unplug and carry the lamp to the hallway, where we’ve stacked the easy-to-move furniture. Once back in the room, I pick up the hardcover book on the nightstand that Astor got her.

To Grief and Back, it’s entitled. A #1 New York Times bestselling novel.

I open the flap, and find the pages still crisp, some even stuck together. I frown, recalling Astor saying Valerie never went anywhere without it. Did she even read it?

Curious, I flip through the pages until I get to the back flap, which is significantly thicker than the front cover.

My frown deepens as I examine the edges and discover that the interior paper of the back cover has been cut away and glued back down.

What the heck?

I glance to the bathroom. Astor’s shadow moves along the wall as he packs up the vanity. I consider calling out to him, but something tells me to explore this privately.

My heart begins to race as I slide my thumbnail under the paper and peel up the edges that have been previously cut loose.

I pull out a thin stack of folded papers.

My hands tremble as I unfold each one.

The first is a copy of a communication between Valerie and a lawyer about divorcing Astor. The email appears to be a consultation of what the process would entail, including a layout of potential fees (which are insane), and how to contact him if she wishes to move forward. Next is a print of a photo captured from a cell phone, presumably Valerie’s, of a piece of paper sitting on Astor’s desk in his New York suite. The picture was obviously taken in secret, as the lights in the room are off and it’s heavily shadowed. The photo is of a copy of a living trust amendment that indicates if he were to die, every penny of his estate would go to his child, Chloe—not his wife, Valerie.

I recall Astor telling me that he did this, and I remember him saying that Valerie didn’t know.

He was wrong.

The next photo is a clause that says in the event Chloe passed before Valerie, the bulk of the estate is to be broken up among several charities, and one million dollars of his estate would go to his wife, Valerie. If they divorce before then, she gets nothing.

I gasp, the papers falling from my fingertips.

As they scatter in the air, a small ringlet of curly blond hair flitters to the floor.

Fifty

Sabine

6 Months Later,

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