It was the most honest answer I had ever given.
Her pen paused.
“Did you ever document the injuries?”
“No.”
“Tell a doctor?”
“No.”
“Tell a friend?”
I thought of all the people I had slowly stopped seeing. Coworkers Garrett considered disloyal. College friends he called irresponsible. My former supervisor, who had once asked why I wore a scarf indoors in May.
“No,” I said again.
The detective’s expression did not change.
“Did your husband ever threaten you?”
“He didn’t have to.”
That answer made her look up.
I continued, forcing each sentence through the ache in my chest.
“He controlled the accounts. My phone records. My schedule. He reminded me that our home was owned through a trust managed by his company. He said if I left, he would tell everyone I was unstable.”
“Were you?”
The question could have sounded cruel, but her tone was careful.
