Mark had mocked my old sedan for years. Called it a “retirement coffin.” He never knew its emergency kit held a bolt cutter, legal evidence bags, a flashlight, and the small body camera I used when consulting on domestic violence cases.
I clipped it beneath my scarf.
Then I walked back to the front door and knocked again.
Mark opened it with murder in his eyes.
“You don’t listen.”
“No,” I said softly. “I collect.”
He frowned. “What?”
“Details.”
Vanessa appeared behind him, holding a wineglass. “God, she’s pathetic.”
Mark stepped onto the porch. “Emily signed everything. Do you understand? She’s done with you. Done with this family. Done pretending you matter.”
