“Take this bag and go. Don’t call your husband,” my neighbor said when I came home early from work. Before I could ask why, a dark sedan slowed at the end of our street. The driver was checking house numbers. I got into a taxi and opened the bag a few blocks away. Beneath a stack of photos of me and a list of payments was a note in my husband’s handwriting.
“Gabriella, take this bag and get out of here! Don’t call your husband, and whatever you do, don’t…
