He thought I was harmless because I had introduced myself as a retired government administrator. That was technically true. I had simply left out the part about spending fourteen years in the FBI’s Violent Crimes Division.
I did not challenge him that night. Anger makes people careless, and carelessness destroys evidence. Instead, I hugged my mother, memorized the layout of the house, and noticed the small security camera positioned above Garrick’s office door.
Two weeks later, she called me from a pharmacy restroom.
“He hit me again,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “He said if I file for divorce, he’ll kill us both.”
“Are you safe right now?”
“For ten minutes.”
“Then listen carefully.”
I gave her the name of a brilliant domestic-violence attorney, arranged an off-the-record medical examination, and moved emergency money into a secure account Garrick could not touch. I also contacted Ethan Reyes, my former partner and now a supervisory special agent. I did not ask him for personal favors. I gave him cold, hard facts: documented injuries, death threats, illegal firearm possession, and evidence of financial fraud.
