I didn’t say “he’s trying to kill me.” I didn’t say “he’s a monster.” I let the facts sit there like heavy stones.
Two officers arrived within twenty minutes. The flashing lights reflected off the neighbors’ windows, a silent announcement that the Pierce marriage was over.
One officer, a tall man with a shaved head and eyes that had seen too much, took my statement. The other, younger, softer-looking, spoke to Megan and finally checked on our mom.
Mom was standing in the kitchen doorway, clutching a dish towel. “What is going on?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Why are there police, Claire?”
“It’s Logan, Mom,” Megan said, guiding her to a chair.
When I described Logan’s words to the lead officer—messed with her brakes—his expression hardened. The professional mask slipped just enough to reveal disgust.
“Where is your husband now?” he asked, pen hovering over his notepad.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But he’s likely at our house. Or he’s realized the car isn’t there.”
“Do you have proof of intent? Any messages?” the second officer asked, stepping back into the room.
“I have an email,” I said.
My hands were steadier now, anger layering over the fear, creating a protective shell. I unlocked my phone and pulled up the screenshot I had taken hours ago—the one I found on his iPad before I ran.
