It was the most truthful sentence she had spoken. Margaret’s phone vibrated again. She listened silently, then straightened. “They’re at the house.”
I held my baby closer. The shock had hardened into something steadier now—something like resolve. Minutes stretched thin.
Then Margaret spoke again, voice clipped. “The front door was forced. Your bedroom has been disturbed. Filing cabinet opened. Jewelry box emptied onto the dresser. Closet ransacked.”
My pulse spiked. “Did he take anything?”
“They’re still assessing,” she replied. “But officers report printed documents scattered in the kitchen. It appears he was looking for something.”
Looking. Not stealing. Looking. The trust documents had been secured in a locked drawer. Jason didn’t know the specifics—but he knew enough to search for leverage. For proof. For something he could reshape into a narrative where he wasn’t the aggressor.
He had always been skilled at turning facts into confusion.
Margaret closed her phone. “We’ll inventory everything and file the report. This demonstrates escalation. It strengthens your case.”
Evidence. The word sounded clinical. Detached. It didn’t erase the violation.
I remained in the hospital an extra day. Security doubled hallway patrols. My discharge instructions were revised to prevent interference. Jason attempted to interfere anyway.
