Chapter 2

Ethan recovered quickly.

He always did.

The fear vanished from his face, replaced by the calm expression he wore whenever he stood before senior officers.

"Richard, put the phone down," he said. "We can resolve this as a family."

My father continued speaking to the emergency dispatcher.

"Pregnant woman. Visible injuries. Suspected domestic violence. The offender is still present."

Margaret hurried forward.

"This is outrageous. Claire needs psychiatric care, not police."

My father turned his eyes toward her.

"Touch her again, and you will need an attorney before the police arrive."

Margaret stopped.

Ethan did not.

He moved toward the nightstand where my phone had been kept for weeks.

I knew what he wanted.

The recordings.

I pushed myself upright despite the pain around my ribs.

"Don't let him take it."

My father blocked Ethan's path.

Ethan's jaw tightened.

"Move."

"No."

For one terrible second, I thought Ethan would strike him.

Instead, Ethan reached into his pocket.

My father caught his wrist before he could pull anything out.

A small black flash drive fell onto the floor.

Ethan stared at it.

So did I.

I had never seen it before.

My father stepped on it gently, keeping it from Ethan's reach.

"What is that?" he asked.

"Work material," Ethan answered.

"Classified?"

Ethan hesitated.

That hesitation changed the room.

My father released his wrist but positioned himself between Ethan and me.

"Then you should be very concerned about carrying it into a private residence."

Ethan gave him a cold smile.

"You don't know what you're involving yourself in."

"I know exactly what I'm looking at."

Sirens sounded in the distance.

Margaret's composure cracked.

She rushed toward Ethan and whispered something too softly for me to hear.

He shook his head.

Then she looked at me.

Not with fear.

With hatred.

"You ungrateful little liar," she said.

My father stepped forward.

"Say another word to her."

The front door opened downstairs.

Boots struck the marble floor.

"Police!"

Ethan straightened his shirt.

In seconds, he transformed.

His shoulders squared. His breathing slowed. His voice softened.

"Upstairs," he called. "My wife is having an episode."

Two officers entered the bedroom.

One was a woman in her forties with sharp eyes and a hand resting near her holster. The other was younger, broad-shouldered, visibly uncertain when he recognized Ethan.

"Captain Cole?" the younger officer said.

Ethan offered a tired smile.

"Officer. I'm sorry you were dragged into this."

The female officer looked at the bruises on my body.

Her expression changed.

"I'm Detective Lena Ortiz," she said. "Ma'am, do you feel safe answering questions here?"

"No."

It was the first time I had said the word loudly.

Ethan looked at me.

That stare had controlled me for months.

This time, my father stood beside me.

Detective Ortiz turned toward Ethan.

"Sir, step into the hallway."

"My wife needs me."

"Your wife said she doesn't feel safe."

Margaret interfered immediately.

"Detective, Claire has a documented history of delusions."

"Then you can show me the documentation downstairs."

Margaret's lips parted.

There was no documentation.

Only emails Ethan had written in my name.

Canceled appointments.

False statements.

Rumors.

Detective Ortiz noticed the answer in her silence.

The younger officer escorted Ethan toward the hallway.

As he passed the bed, Ethan whispered, "Think about the baby."

Detective Ortiz heard him.

"So should you," she said.

Ethan was taken downstairs.

Margaret followed, protesting that the family name was being destroyed.

The moment they disappeared, my body started shaking.

My father sat beside me.

"You did it," he said.

"No. They will come back."

"No, Claire."

His voice broke for the first time.

"They will never control you again."

I wanted to believe him.

Then Detective Ortiz picked up my phone.

"Do you know the passcode?"

"Nine-two-one-seven."

My wedding date.

The date I once believed had begun my life.

She opened the device.

Most of my messages were gone.

My photos had been deleted.

My contacts were blocked.

But the recording application was still hidden inside a calculator folder.

I showed her.

There were twenty-seven audio files.

Ethan shouting.

Margaret threatening to have me committed.

The sound of my body hitting a wall.

My own voice begging them to stop.

Detective Ortiz listened to ten seconds of the newest recording.

Her face hardened.

"Is there anywhere else they kept documents?"

"The office."

"Anything they may try to destroy?"

I thought of the trust papers.

The fake medical letters.

The envelopes I had seen Margaret hiding in Ethan's desk.

"Yes."

Detective Ortiz spoke into her radio.

"Secure the home office. Nobody enters."

From downstairs, we heard Ethan shout.

"You have no authority to search my property!"

My father looked at me.

"Remember what you said?"

I nodded.

"It's not his property."

A crash came from the hallway.

The younger officer yelled.

Detective Ortiz drew her weapon and rushed out.

My father ordered me to stay on the bed.

But through the open doorway, I saw Ethan fighting the officer near the staircase.

He was reaching for the black flash drive still lying on the bedroom floor.

Whatever was stored on it frightened him more than the police.

More than the recordings.

More than losing his career.

He broke free and charged toward us.

My father moved before anyone else.

He seized Ethan by the shoulder and drove him against the wall without striking my stomach, the bed, or anything near me.

Ethan struggled.

"You have no idea what she has done!"

My father held him still.

"What did she do?"

Ethan turned his head toward me.

His eyes were wild.

"She found something that was never meant for her."

Detective Ortiz cuffed him.

"What did she find?"

Ethan said nothing.

But Margaret screamed from downstairs.

"Don't let them open the safe!"

The entire house became silent.

Detective Ortiz looked toward the home office.

Then she looked at me.

"What safe?"

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I swallowed.

"I didn't know we had one."