Chapter 2
The woman stepped over the threshold, her shoes clicking on the hardwood. She was in her late thirties, sharp suit, no-nonsense expression, and I recognized her instantly—Lila, the lawyer I’d met in secret three weeks prior, the one who’d helped me draw up the papers when I finally worked up the courage to run.
“Michael Hale?” she said, her voice loud enough for the officers now pouring through the front door to hear. “You’ve been served.”
She held the envelope out like a weapon.
Michael froze, his hand still on the back doorframe. His eyes darted from the papers to the uniformed officers rushing into the living room, to Jake still on the stairs clutching my phone, to me curled against the couch bleeding through my shirt.
“You set me up,” he snarled at me.
Two officers grabbed his arms before he could lunge.
He thrashed against their grip, his face purple with rage. “You think this is over? You think a piece of paper and a video keeps me away from my son? I’ll burn every last thing you love before I let you take him from me!”
“Read him his rights,” one officer said.
They cuffed his hands behind his back. The metal clicked loud in the quiet room. Jake whimpered from the stairs, and I pushed myself up, ignoring the screaming in my shoulder, to run to him. I wrapped my arms around him, and he buried his face in my neck, his small body shaking so hard I could feel it in my bones.
“I was so scared, Mom,” he whispered.
“I know, baby. I know. You were so brave. So brave.”
Dad stood between us and Michael, his body a wall. I watched over his shoulder as the officers led Michael toward the door. He twisted his head around, his eyes locking on mine, and the look in them made my blood run cold. It wasn’t anger anymore. It was promise.
“Jake belongs with me,” he called out. “You’re a weak, pathetic mother. You can’t protect him. Not from me. Not from what’s coming.”
The door slammed shut behind him.
The sirens faded down the street.
Lila walked over to us, her face softening now that Michael was gone. She set the divorce papers on the coffee table, then knelt down so she was eye level with Jake.
“Hey, buddy,” she said gently. “That bad man can’t hurt you or your mom anymore. Okay?”
Jake nodded against my chest, but he didn’t look up.
One of the officers stayed behind to take our statements. I told him everything—the belt, the threats, the two previous times I’d tried to leave, the video Jake had sent. He wrote it all down, his pen scratching across the pad, and when he was done he handed me a card with his name on it: Detective Carter.
“Call me day or night if he tries to contact you,” he said. “We’re requesting a restraining order first thing tomorrow. No contact with you or your son. In person, by phone, by text, through a third party. Nothing.”
I took the card, my fingers shaking.
After he left, Dad started packing a bag for me and Jake. He didn’t say much. He never did. But I saw the way his jaw tightened when he pulled my favorite sweater out of the closet, the way he paused when he found a pair of Jake’s dinosaur pajamas folded on the bed. He’d known. Deep down, he’d known something was wrong for months, maybe longer, and I’d lied to him every time he asked. Told him I’d fallen down the stairs. Told him I’d run into a door. Told him anything but the truth.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” I said, standing in the doorway of Jake’s room.
He zipped the bag shut and turned to me. His eyes were red. I’d only seen my father cry twice in my life—once when my mom died, once when I was born. This was the third.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, baby girl,” he said, pulling me into a hug. His arms were so big, so strong, the same arms that had lifted me off the floor an hour before. “I should’ve come sooner. I should’ve seen through his lies. I failed you.”
“You didn’t fail me,” I said, crying into his shirt. “I failed myself. I let him do this. I let him scare me into staying. I almost let him hurt Jake.”
Jake came over and wrapped his arms around both our legs.
“Can we go to your house now, Grandpa?” he asked. “I don’t like it here anymore.”
“Of course we can, buddy,” Dad said, lifting him onto his hip. “We can stay as long as you want. Forever, if that’s what you need.”
We walked out to Dad’s truck. I looked back at the house one last time—the house I’d picked out with Michael when we were first married, the house where we’d brought Jake home from the hospital, the house that had turned into a prison. I didn’t feel sad. I felt empty. Like a part of me had been left behind in that living room, bleeding into the carpet.
We were halfway to Dad’s when my phone rang.
The caller ID was blocked.
I almost didn’t answer. But something made me slide my thumb across the screen.
“Hello?”
A laugh came through the line. Low, cold, familiar.
“Did you really think it would be this easy, Emma?” Michael said. I could hear the clink of metal in the background—payphone, probably from the precinct. “You think a few cops and a restraining order keep me away? I told you I’d take Jake. And I will. But first, I’m gonna destroy you. I have something. Something that will make the court take him away from you so fast your head will spin. Something no one knows. Not even your precious father.”
My throat went dry. “What are you talking about?”
“Wait and see, baby,” he said. The line went dead.
I stared at the phone, my hands shaking so bad I almost dropped it. Dad glanced over from the driver’s seat, his face tight.
“Who was it?”
“Michael,” I whispered.
“What did he say?”
I looked out the window at the dark street passing by, at Jake fast asleep in the backseat, his head lolled against the car seat. I thought of all the secrets Michael had kept over the years—the late nights he wouldn’t explain, the cash he’d hide in his sock drawer, the way he’d panic if I touched his work laptop. I’d ignored it all. Told myself it was just work stress. Told myself I was being paranoid.
“He said he has something,” I said. “Something that will make me lose Jake forever.”
Dad reached over and squeezed my hand. His was warm, calloused from years of working construction.
May you like
“Let him try,” he said. “He’s not taking that boy. Not while I’m breathing.”
I wanted to believe him. I really did. But as we pulled into Dad’s driveway, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Michael’s threat wasn’t just the angry rant of a man in cuffs. It was a promise. And he always kept his promises.
