The stack of shirts stayed on the island while they planned.

Elena packed a single bag in her room with the door open—nothing in the house was locked from Victoria anymore, and the performance of privacy had already burned down. Soft pants. The high-necked sweaters that still covered the marks. Underwear. A charger. The tracking app still sat on her phone like a relic she was not ready to delete. She did not take photographs or keepsakes. The future they were walking into did not have room for the old household’s ordinary objects. Downstairs she could hear Marcus on a low call, voice clipped and practical, arranging the pieces that...