“His father will pay that by noon,” I told the prosecutor, a new, cold panic rising in my throat.
“We can’t stop him from posting bail,” the prosecutor admitted. “But we have a temporary restraining order in place.”
“A piece of paper won’t stop a man like him,” I snapped.
We had to move. I took Olivia and Matthew straight from the hospital to my house. I hired a locksmith to change every lock. I installed a state-of-the-art camera system. I turned my quiet, suburban home into a fortress.
That afternoon, Olivia, pale and moving with painful stiffness, said she needed to go back to the house.
“Are you insane?” I asked, my heart seizing with fear.
“Not to stay. To get the box.”
“What box?”
“The evidence,” she said, her voice stronger now. “I’ve been keeping a journal. I have photos of the bruises with dates. I have audio recordings on a small device. It’s all hidden in the back of my closet inside an old shoebox for winter boots. If Robert gets out and finds it, he’ll destroy it. Without that, it’s my word against his.”
We requested a police escort. Two officers met us at the house. They gave us twenty minutes.
Walking back into that house was like walking into the belly of a beast. It was eerily silent, frozen in the chaos of her escape—a spilled cup of coffee on the floor, a child’s toy truck overturned. Olivia moved with a trembling but focused efficiency. She went straight to the closet and retrieved the shoebox, then grabbed birth certificates, passports, and a few of Matthew’s favorite things.
As we were leaving, I saw an envelope on the kitchen counter. It had Olivia’s name on it in Robert’s sharp, angular handwriting.
She opened it in the car on the way back to my house.
Olivia, I know you’re confused and upset right now. I forgive you for all this drama. But you need to understand something. If you testify, if you try to take my son from me, I will destroy you. I will release the videos. You know the ones I mean. Your life as you know it will be over. Come home. We can fix this.
Olivia crumpled the letter, her knuckles white.
“He’s out,” she whispered, looking out the car window at the passing traffic. “I can feel it.”
