David’s phone slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the tile beside me. He stared at it like it had become a weapon aimed at his head. Sylvia looked around wildly, as if the walls themselves had turned against her.
Two minutes later, the front of the house erupted with noise—shouts, heavy boots, the crash of a door forced open. People flooded the hallway with the efficiency of trained professionals.
“Federal agents! Get down!”
Mark bolted, then stopped, trapped by the sound of commands that left no room for argument. Sylvia screamed. David lifted his hands, shaking, his mouth forming words that didn’t matter anymore.
A medic dropped to my side, voice urgent but controlled, and suddenly I was being lifted carefully onto a stretcher. As they wheeled me past David, he twisted toward me, eyes wild.
“Anna—tell them! Tell them it was a mistake! We’re married!”
I looked down at him. The man who had cared more about neighbors than my blood. The man who had watched me beg and chose silence.
“I want to press charges,” I said, my voice steady despite the shaking in my body. “And I want a divorce.”