Elise stood. Walked to the window. Watched snow erase the deck railing one flake at a time.
"I want the letter," she said. "Now. And I want whatever else is in that bag. And then I want you to sit across from me while I decide whether the man I married is still someone I recognize."
Daniel nodded. "Fair."
They returned to the living room together. Toby had fallen asleep on the sectional, one arm thrown over a throw pillow, the cartoon still murmuring its bright nonsense. Elise paused long enough to lower the volume and tuck the plaid blanket around his shoulders. In sleep he looked like the baby she had carried, and also like a stranger who had wandered into the most adult problem of their marriage and arranged it on a table like a toy.
Daniel brought the coral handbag to the kitchen island, away from Toby's soft breathing. He opened the clasp. The sound was small and final.
Inside: a manila envelope thick with documents. A prepaid phone in a plastic case. A zippered pouch of cash Daniel did not count aloud. A folded sweater that still held a ghost of Natalie's perfume — something citrus and clean. Two sealed envelopes, one labeled ELISE in Natalie's sharp print, one labeled MOM & DAD. A third envelope, smaller, unlabeled, that Daniel set aside with visible care. And at the bottom, wrapped in tissue, a little pair of infant socks, yellow, never worn.
Elise saw the socks and made a sound she could not name.
"There's more," Daniel said quietly. "The unlabeled envelope. I opened it in October because I thought it might be for Greg, something I should destroy. It wasn't."