He trotted down the hall, and I followed, locking his door from the outside the way Mia had told me—quietly, gently, as if it were just part of the morning routine. Then I returned to the entryway, phone in hand, and called the non-emergency line.
“I have two people at my residence,” I told the dispatcher. “My estranged husband and his mother. I’m requesting an officer for a civil standby. I do not consent to them being on my property.”
Outside, Diane’s mouth moved in sharp bursts. Even without audio, I could tell she was lecturing the door. Evan hovered beside her, glancing around like he expected cameras—because now he knew I had resources.
I didn’t feel powerful. I felt tired.
My phone buzzed with a text from Evan: Open the door. We can fix this.
Then another: You took my son. That’s kidnapping.
I screenshot everything and sent it to Mia.
Diane tried the doorknob. When it didn’t move, she stepped back and waved her arms, a performance for any neighbor who might be watching. Evan leaned in close, talking to her quickly. Then he did something that made my breath catch: he walked to my living room window and pressed his face to the glass, trying to see inside.
He found me immediately—found the shape of me behind the curtain—and for a second his expression flickered from arrogance to panic.
Because he realized I wasn’t bluffing. I wasn’t hiding in a friend’s spare room. I wasn’t scrambling to “figure it out.”
I’d already figured it out.
