By the time she arrived, I had documented every single charge. And I was no longer waiting for answers. I was following evidence.
PART 2
Olivia arrived twenty minutes later carrying two grocery bags, her car keys threaded between her fingers like she had just left a chaotic shift and walked straight into another one without pausing.
“What did you touch?” she asked immediately after stepping inside, setting the bags on the kitchen island.
“Nothing,” I said, leaning back against the counter, still holding the edge like it anchored me.
“Any knives, heavy objects, or dramatic gestures involving his wardrobe?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“No,” I said, almost smiling despite everything.
“Good,” she replied, pulling out a legal pad, a pen, and a container of ice cream. “Then we proceed like adults who know how this works.”
I laid everything out for her, the statements, the dates, the calendar entries, the pattern that now felt less like coincidence and more like intention repeating itself with confidence.
She listened without interrupting, which meant she understood exactly how serious it was.
When I finished, she pushed the legal pad toward me.
“You already know what to do,” she said quietly.