Page 201 of The Wright Man

This was just logistics.

We turned the corner onto my street. I glanced out the window, and I knew—immediately—something was wrong.

Everything inside me seized.

Gavin's car was in the driveway.

Not parked neatly. Crooked, slightly angled, like he'd come home in a rush and hadn't cared where it landed. Like he was home.

My pulse stuttered.

That wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to be back until tomorrow night.

I blinked, trying to convince myself maybe I was wrong, maybe it was a neighbor's car or some kind of coincidence, maybe—

And then—

Then I saw the curb.

And my breath left me in a slow, brutal exhale.

Suitcases.

Trash bags.

Boxes.

Plastic bins.

A laundry basket spilling with makeup bags and tangled hair tools. My favorite throw blanket. A stack of books. My diffuser.

My vision blurred.

And there, sitting right on top of a half-open suitcase—like some kind of cherry-on-top fuck-you—was Maleeka's blanket.

Soft pink cotton, scalloped edges. Her name stitched across the corner in gold thread, back when I still believed I'd get to call it out loud.

The same blanket I'd hidden in the back of the closet, too painful to look at but too sacred to throw away. Now here it was. On the curb. Baking in the sun like trash.

The Uber slowed to a stop.

"Uh…" the driver said cautiously, "Should I stop here?"

I didn't answer. My mouth opened, but no sound came out.

I was frozen. Staring out the window like if I blinked, the image would disappear.

But it didn't.

Everything I owned was sitting out in the sun. Everything I had survived.

Everything I had clawed my way back from.

And there it was—exposed, discarded on the damn sidewalk. Before I could even serve him papers. Before I could reclaim anything.

He didn't wait for a conversation, a notice, a shred of dignity.

He threw me out before I could leave.