My husband hurled a dinner plate at my head because I refused to give his mother my apartment and pay her $1,200 every month. - usnews

“There’s more,” I said.

She waited.

“My attorney has copies of recordings, emails, bank statements, and messages. I was planning to file for divorce.”

Saying it aloud felt less like a confession than a door opening.

Divorce.

The word had terrified me for months. It seemed enormous, like a storm system on the horizon. But spoken in that small hospital room, it became practical. Painful, yes. Complicated, yes. But survivable.

The officer took notes.

“Did your husband know?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

But even as I said it, I remembered the way Jackson’s eyes had dropped to the folder.

Maybe he had known something.

Maybe he had suspected.

Maybe that was why tonight had happened now.

After the officer left, I borrowed a charger from the nurse’s station and called Naomi.

She answered on the second ring, her voice thick with sleep but instantly alert when she heard mine.

“Elaine? What happened?”

I told her.

Not all of it. Not yet. Just enough.

There was a pause, then the rustle of movement.

“Are you safe right now?” she asked.

“Yes. I’m at the hospital.”

“Good. Do not go home alone. Do not speak to Jackson without counsel. Do not agree to meet anyone from his family privately. I’ll contact you first thing in the morning.”

“Naomi,” I said. “They had my keys.”

Her silence sharpened.

“Who had your keys?”

“Arthur gave them back. He said they were in Genesis’s desk.”

“Elaine,” she said carefully, “has anyone been inside your apartment without your permission?”

I thought of the kitchen drawer that had been slightly open when I came home last week. The faint scent of Genesis’s perfume near my coat closet. The feeling I had dismissed as paranoia because Jackson always said I made mysteries out of dust.

“I don’t know,” I whispered.

“Then you are not going there tonight.”