I heard everything.
She whispered, “We need to stick to the same story.”
I ended the call.
That sentence became the last thing I needed.
I met with an attorney that afternoon.
I gave him the photographs.
The messages.
The hospital records.
The locksmith invoice.
And the names of every person who had been inside the house.
He looked through everything carefully.
“You don’t need to convince your family,” he said. “You need to preserve the evidence.”
So that’s what I did.
I stopped arguing.
I stopped explaining.
I stopped answering every call.
Instead, I documented everything.
Two days later, Denise came to my house.
She stood outside the new locked door crying.
“I didn’t know it would go this far.”
I stared at her.
“You watched.”
