He had been preparing his escape while I remained in darkness.
I barely slept that night.
By nine the following morning, I sat inside the attorney’s office, spreading photographs and screenshots across her desk. She listened carefully, asked brief questions, and wrote notes while nodding.
She sent me home with an initial folder, a checklist, a preservation letter, and a draft request for financial disclosure. Then she told me to wait until she contacted me.
By evening, the folder rested on the kitchen counter, and another appointment had been scheduled for the end of the week.
Then I heard the front door open.
Brian’s voice floated through the house, relaxed and cheerful.
I stood in the living room.
A strand of Christmas lights I had discovered in the hallway closet—not the garage—glowed gently across the couches.
Brian walked in.
The color left his face the instant he saw me standing without my cane.
“Gina?”
“I had the surgery,” I said quietly. “I opened the garage. I know about Penelope.”
A nervous laugh escaped him, followed by a frown and then something colder.
“You don’t understand what these years did to me. I needed someone who could actually see me.”
“Then look at me now, Brian. I see you completely.”
I handed him the folder the attorney had prepared.
Separation papers.
Financial disclosure requests.
Copies of every document found inside the hidden room behind the garage door.
“Your mistress thinks I’m dying. She thinks I’m being moved into a care facility.”
“Gina, please…”
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