Like a dog on a scent, he kept looking for something, anything that would explain things. On the floor, half hidden, sat her old shoebox of mementos—movie stubs, ticket passes, and scrapbooks of photographs. It had been years since he’d seen it. But pushed behind a tangle of boots, something caught his eye: folded slips of paper and printed receipts.
He sat on the carpet, pulling them into the light. They were mostly parking tickets and restaurant bills, dated from the last month, some from just a week ago. He didn’t recognise these places. They were from lunchtime hours, and bore evening timestamps—all from when he’d been at work. His pulse quickened. Why did she keep them? Why hide them here?