“My wife—soon to be ex-wife, hopefully—assaulted my son,” he said calmly. “She also attacked my mistress when she tried to stop her. She’s unstable. We’ve been trying to get her professional help for a while now, but she refuses treatment.”
My stomach dropped.
“Mistress?” I whispered, disbelief barely forming the word. “You’re really saying that out loud now?”
His gaze finally shifted to me, steady and unbothered. “Yes. She’s currently in the hospital. Bruised. Possibly worse. And Mason…” He paused, shaking his head like it pained him to continue. “He’s terrified of you.”
“You’re lying,” I said immediately, shaking my head. “All of it.”
He leaned slightly forward. “Then prove otherwise.”
But I had nothing. No recordings. No witnesses who would speak for me. No one.
That night, they processed me anyway.
I barely registered the ride to the station, only flashes of camera lights, reporters shouting questions I couldn’t understand, and the word murder floating around like a curse I couldn’t wash off.
By morning, they said I could be released on bail while the investigation continued. It sounded like relief, but it wasn’t.
It felt like a trap dressed as mercy.
All I wanted was to go home.