Grant’s cruelty became evidence.
The belt with the silver buckle. The glass he shattered near my bare feet. The video file labeled “lesson 14.” The audio clip where he told me no one would believe a woman who had everything.
He had been wrong.
That was the strange thing about men like Grant. They mistook silence for loyalty. They mistook fear for stupidity. They mistook survival for surrender.
I had been quiet because I was listening.
I had been still because I was watching.
And I had been afraid because I was alive.
On the third evening, Detective Voss returned without her coat. She looked as if she had not slept.
“We found the media folder,” she said.
I nodded.
Her mouth tightened.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked down at my hands. The bruises around my wrists had deepened to a dark, ugly blue.
“I’m not.”
She studied me.
