In the bathroom, I took my toothbrush, my prescription bottles, blood pressure, cholesterol, and a bar of soap. I left the expensive shampoo Vanessa once told me not to use because it was “for guests.”
Downstairs, I walked through the kitchen one last time. The counters were clean. I had scrubbed them that morning before the funeral because I could not sleep and I needed something to do with my hands.
The coffee maker sat in its usual spot. I bought it in 2001 with money from a hospital bonus.
Vanessa had put a Post-it on it.
Trash.
I picked up my purse from the hook by the door. My old leather purse was cracked at the seams. I checked inside.
Wallet. Keys to a house I no longer owned. The brass key, number 447, tucked into the zippered pocket. And a business card, creased and faded.
Donald P. Brennan, Esq. Estate Planning and Trusts.
Daniel had slipped it into my purse two months before he died. I had forgotten about it until that moment.
I left the signed papers on the kitchen table.
I did not leave a note. What would I say?
The front door closed behind me with a soft click.
