I grabbed the step ladder. A minute later I was examining the contents of the shelf, thankful the garage ceiling wasn’t high. It looked as if the owners had used the shelf to store their linens, which were packaged in clear plastic bags. I manoeuvred one sideways, to check if there was anything behind it.

At first, I was uncertain of what I was seeing, not comprehending what it was about the bag that made it seem familiar. It was the size of an extra-fat laptop case, and made of tan canvas that was trimmed with tan fake leather. My heart started to beat faster as I realised that this was a companion piece to Zac’s old suitcase set.

I set my feet more firmly on the ladder’s rung and pulled the bag towards me. It was heavier than I expected. The safest way I could think to get the bag down was to let it fall to the ground. Hoping nothing inside was breakable, I moved the bag as far to my right as I could, so it wouldn’t knock the ladder on descent, and tipped it over the edge.

The bag smacked the concrete floor with an explosion of dust as my stomach dropped and the ladder gave a great shake. I grabbed the shelf, which rocked on its chains but stopped me from falling. Still trembling, I climbed down, trying to catch my breath. I stood there, my back slick with the sweat of panic, then scolded myself for being pathetic and made myself move again.

I dragged the bag outside by the strap, onto the grass, and lowered myself beside it to inspect the contents. Before I did, I wiped my hands on my faded maternity jeans. When I looked down at myself, I saw that the pintucks covering the chest of my floaty white blouse were splodged with dirt, and my bare arms were streaked with it too.

The zipper went round one of the bag’s sides like a horseshoe. I lifted the flap of tan canvas and felt as if a pair of hands had grabbed my throat. I was looking at the cover of a magazine. Beneath it were a dozen more. They were from the 1990s. Photographs of women. The things that were being done to them, the marks on their skin and expressions on their faces, the poses. I started to cry, and quickly turned the magazines upside down, their covers facing the grass. Could Zac really want to look at this? Want to do this? All of the bad I ever imagined of him never conjured anything close.