Chapter 2
Isabelle walked to the coffee table and picked up the pen. Her movements were slow and deliberate, as if she were carrying out some kind of ceremony.
After she finished signing her name, she put the pen down, slid the ring off her left ring finger, and gently placed it on top of the document.
The metal met the paper with a soft, quiet thud.
Shepard's eyes landed on the ring, and he frowned slightly.
"You—" he started.
"If it's a joke, I'll go along with it," Isabelle cut him off, smiling even though her eyes were already red. "Happy April Fool's Day, Shepard."
She turned and walked into the bedroom.
Five minutes later, she came back out, wheeling a twenty-four-inch suitcase.
Shepard stared at the suitcase, completely stunned.
This wasn't some hastily packed bag. It was stuffed full, the zipper pulled tight, as if she'd been ready for this moment for a long time.
"You—"
"Goodbye," Isabelle said, not giving him a chance to finish. She pulled her suitcase toward the door.
She opened the door, and the cold spring night air rushed in, making her shiver.
"Isabelle," Shepard called out, getting to his feet. For the first time, there was a crack in his voice. "You—"
The door closed behind her.
Inside the elevator, Isabelle leaned against the cold wall. She couldn't hold it in anymore. She slid down, hugged her knees, and cried without making a sound.
Three years of pent-up hurt came flooding out all at once.
She remembered what her mother always said, "Marrying into the Foster family is your lucky break. Don't be so ungrateful."
She remembered what her best friend told her, "If he treats you badly, leave. It's not like you can't support yourself."
She remembered all those sleepless nights, the tears she'd wiped away alone, and all those anniversaries he never bothered to remember.
The elevator reached the first floor, and the doors slid open.
Isabelle stood up, wiped her eyes, and took a deep breath.
She pulled her suitcase out of the building, the night wind tangling her hair every which way. She glanced back at the lit window upstairs and suddenly felt a weight lift off her shoulders.
Turned out, letting go of someone only took one April Fool's Day.
*****
Shepard stood alone in the empty living room, staring at the lone ring sitting on the coffee table. For the first time, the house felt way too big.
He walked over to the dining table. The steak had gone cold, and the fat had turned white and solid. The candles on the cake had tipped over, and a big chunk of the frosting had collapsed.
A sticky note hung on the fridge, written in a handwriting he knew right away.
[I stocked the fridge for the week. Monday: steak. Tuesday: fish. Wednesday: vegetarian. The dry cleaning receipt is on the shoe cabinet. Water the pothos every three days.]
He opened the fridge and found neat rows of containers, each one labeled with the date and what was inside.
Shepard shut the fridge, pulled out his phone, and texted Isabelle.
Shepard: [The divorce agreement was a joke. Come home.]
The message showed as read.
But she didn't respond.
He sent another: [Isabelle, stop messing around.]
Still, it was read, yet there was no reply.
He sent a third message: [You really packed your whole suitcase?]
It was read, too.
This time, it showed only one gray tick. He'd been blocked.
Shepard stared at his phone screen for a long time and then slowly sat down on the couch. The spot where Isabelle always sat had gone completely cold.
He figured she was throwing a tantrum and would come back in a few days.
After all, she didn't have a job, didn't have any money, and her family wouldn't take in a divorced daughter who'd "disgraced" them.
That first week, he kept going to work like usual, but everything in his life started feeling wrong.
In the morning, he opened his closet and realized none of his shirts had been ironed. After digging around, he finally found a wrinkled one.
When he showed up at the office, his assistant, Jackson Parker, gave him a weird look and said, "Uh, Mr. Foster, your shirt..."
At lunch, he automatically reached for his phone to tell Isabelle he wouldn't be home to eat, and then caught himself. She wasn't there anymore.
When he got home at night, the house was pitch black: no lights on, nobody waiting for him, and no hot food on the table.
He went into the kitchen, tried to cook some instant noodles, and ended up burning the whole pot.
Standing under the smoke alarm, Shepard felt, for the first time, like the house was a tomb.
By the second week, he couldn't sleep anymore.
At three in the morning, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling, unable to get Isabella out of his head.
He remembered her crouching by the coffee table to polish his shoes and standing on her tiptoes in the kitchen to reach the high spice jars.
He remembered her reading, curled up on the couch, and jumping up and running to the front door the second she heard him come home.
He sat up and walked to the living room, looking at her usual spot on the couch. The cushion still seemed to hold a faint scent of her perfume.
He grabbed his phone to call her and then remembered he'd been blocked.
By the third week, he had Jackson track her down.
"Mrs. Foster flew to Pinecrest last week, using her own savings. She didn't touch any of the Foster family's money," Jackson said carefully. "There's no credit card activity, either. It looks like she's staying with a former professor from college in Pinecrest."
Shepard frowned at the word "Pinecrest." He remembered that she'd majored in jewelry design and had gotten into a school in Pinecrest after graduation. But she gave it up to marry him.
"Where did she get the money?" he asked.
"Mrs. Foster had some savings from before the marriage. Plus, it seems she's been taking on small design jobs online, making a couple thousand dollars a month."
Shepard was floored.
She'd been working this whole time without him ever knowing.
He suddenly remembered those late nights when he'd come home from overtime and see the light on in her study. He'd assumed she couldn't sleep and was reading. He'd never once walked in to check.
"Keep looking," he said, a note of urgency in his voice that he didn't even notice himself.
Jackson nodded, hesitated, and then added, "Mr. Foster, Mrs. Foster hasn't contacted the Warren family, either."
She never called the Warren family, never used a dollar from the Foster family, and didn't lean on any friends for support.
She'd disappeared like a drop of water evaporating into thin air, clean and without a trace.