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

After the call, Claire made toast I barely ate. Then she sat across from me with her hands folded.

“I need to ask you something,” she said.

I braced myself.

“Are you going back to him?”

The question was quiet. Not accusing. Not dramatic.

Still, it hurt.

“No,” I said.

She closed her eyes in relief.

“I’m not,” I repeated, more to myself than to her.

The words settled between us.

No thunder. No music. No sweeping certainty.

Just a decision.

By afternoon, Naomi had arranged for an officer to accompany Claire and me to my apartment so I could collect essentials and check whether anything had been disturbed. Walking into my own building with someone in uniform felt humiliating at first. Then the feeling shifted.

I was not being escorted because I had done something wrong.

I was being protected because someone else had.

My apartment sat on the fourth floor of a brick building in St. Paul, though I kept it as a work residence and rental space depending on projects. It was not large, not glamorous in the way Genesis valued, but it was mine. Sunlight filled the living room through tall windows. My drafting table stood near the east wall. Books leaned in uneven stacks on the shelves. A blue ceramic bowl Claire had made in college sat by the door, where I dropped my keys every time I came in.

Except the bowl was empty.

Of course it was.

I unlocked the door with the keys Arthur returned and stepped inside.

At first, everything looked normal.

Then Claire said, “Ellie.”

She pointed to the bookshelf.

A framed photo had been moved. Not much—just a few inches. Behind it, the wall safe I had installed two years earlier stood closed, but the tiny scratch near the keypad was new.

My throat tightened.

Only three people knew that safe existed.

Me.

Claire.

And Jackson.

The officer photographed it. I opened the safe with trembling fingers.