“Bring the brown suitcase.” But Erich stood stiffly, feet planted. “What is it?” “My job,” he replied. “People would know I was gone.” He would not go with me. The roast dropped from my hands, plate shattering, the smell of warm meat and gravy wafting sickeningly upward. It was preferable to the rest of the immaculate table, a caricature of the perfect life I thought we’d had. The brown liquid splattered upward against my stockings, staining them. I jutted my chin defiantly. “Then I shall keep the apartment.”
