After My Husband Desecrated My Mother's Grave

I call Greenwood Cemetery at nine a.m. on Monday.

The administrative office opens at eight-thirty. I know this because I've been visiting my mother's grave on the third of every month for two years, and I've passed the office window enough times to memorize the hours posted on the door.

The woman who answers sounds tired. I give her my name and the plot number. I tell her I'm the owner. I tell her I need a copy of the security footage from last Tuesday night.

"For what purpose?" she asks.

"Legal documentation," I say.

There's a pause. Then she says she'll need to check with her supervisor.

I wait.

She comes back on the line three minutes later and tells me I can pick up a copy on Wednesday. I thank her and hang up.

I open our joint bank account on my laptop. I scroll back through the transactions. Chase is careful with money — methodical, even — but he's also arrogant. He doesn't think I check.

I find it on Thursday, two days before the cemetery incident. A wire transfer. Four thousand dollars. The memo line is blank, but the recipient account is registered to a contracting LLC in Queens.

I screenshot it. I save it to an encrypted folder on a cloud drive I opened under my maiden name. I label the folder "Documentation."

I pull my phone records next. The call from Marco came in at eleven forty-three p.m. I screenshot the log. I add it to the folder.

I work through my lunch break. No one at the office asks where I am. I eat a protein bar at my desk and keep my door half-closed.

On Wednesday, I leave work at four and take the subway to Greenwood. The administrative office is a small brick building near the main gate. The woman at the desk recognizes me. She hands me a USB drive in a manila envelope and asks me to sign a release form.

I sign. I leave.

I don't watch the footage until I'm home. Chase is working late — a patrol shift that runs until midnight. I sit at the kitchen table with my laptop and plug in the drive.

The footage is black and white, grainy, but clear enough. The timestamp reads 11:38 p.m. The camera angle captures the access road and the vault. I watch the white van pull up. I watch two men step out with tools. I watch Chase walk into the frame, phone in hand, gesturing.

I watch myself arrive six minutes later.

I watch myself collapse.

I save the file. I add it to the folder. I close the laptop.

I don't cry. I've already done that.

On Friday, Victor Salinas emails me the divorce papers. They're clean, straightforward, equitable. I print two copies at a FedEx Office on my lunch break. I slide them into a folder and bring them home.

Chase gets back at six-thirty. He's in a good mood. He asks what I want for dinner. I tell him I already ate.

He opens the fridge and pulls out leftovers. He heats them in the microwave and sits down at the kitchen island.

I set the folder in front of him.

He glances at it, then at me. "What's this?"

"Divorce papers."

He laughs. It's a short sound, genuinely confused, like I've told a joke he doesn't understand.

"Sienna—"

"I need you to sign them," I say.

He shakes his head. He's still smiling, but it's tighter now. "You're overreacting."

"I'm not."

"Lainey didn't mean any harm." His voice is patient. Reasonable. "She wanted to pay her respects. That's all."

I don't answer.

He stands up and walks to the bedroom. He comes back a minute later with a small velvet box. He sets it on the counter between us.

"Open it," he says.

I don't move.

He opens it for me. Inside is a diamond bracelet. Delicate. Expensive. The kind of thing I would have loved three weeks ago.

"I made reservations for tomorrow night," he says. "That new place in Tribeca. The one everyone's talking about."

I pull out my phone. I search the restaurant. I open the menu.

Peanut-crusted salmon. Peanut satay. Peanut brittle dessert.

I close the menu. I close the jewelry box. I slide both back across the counter.

"I'm allergic to peanuts," I say.

He blinks. "What?"

"Peanuts. Severe allergy. Anaphylaxis. I've told you a dozen times."

His face shifts. Not guilt. Irritation. Like I'm being difficult on purpose.

"I'll call and ask them to adjust the menu," he says.

"Don't."

His phone lights up on the counter. Lainey's name fills the screen.

He glances at it. Then at me.

"We'll finish this conversation later," he says.

He picks up the phone and walks out the front door.

I sit alone in the apartment. I count to sixty. Then I count again.

Eleven minutes pass.

I open my laptop. I pull up my realtor's contact information. I compose an email.

*Rachel — I need to list the apartment. Market rate. Immediate availability. Let me know when you can come by for photos. — Sienna*

I hit send.

I close the laptop.

I don't feel sad. I don't feel angry.

I feel efficient.