“No,” I said. “Not yet. She’ll panic. She’ll call him.”
“We’re calling the police,” Megan said, her voice gaining a sudden, sharp edge.
“Yes,” I said. I took a breath, trying to steady the trembling in my hands. “But we do it smart. I already towed my car.”
Megan looked at me, confused. “Towed it where? To the shop?”
“No,” I said, a grim satisfaction settling in my gut. “I towed it to Carolyn’s house.”
Megan’s eyes widened. Carolyn. His mother. “Why would you—”
“Because if the police find a cut brake line in our driveway, he can say an intruder did it. He can say I did it,” I replied. “But if the car is sitting in his mother’s driveway, and he goes there to ‘fix’ it before anyone notices… he incriminates himself.”
I pulled my phone out. “Now. We call 911.”
We stepped into the living room, the neutral ground between the kitchen and the front door. I dialed those three numbers, a sequence I never thought I’d use for my husband.
When the dispatcher answered, I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I forced my voice into a flat, monotone register. I needed to be credible. I needed to be the most rational person in the world.
“My name is Claire Pierce,” I said. “I am reporting a domestic threat and vehicle tampering. I overheard my husband stating he had damaged my brake lines. The vehicle is currently secured at a separate location. I am at my sister’s house, and I believe he may come here.”
