The weeks that followed were a blur. Medical appointments. Interviews. Statements. My sister, Lucienne Rowe, refused to leave me alone. She made me tea I could barely hold. She spoke softly, but even soft words made me flinch.
Detective Harper Vale, assigned to my case, visited often. He carried himself with quiet conviction. He handled every detail with caution and kindness.
“We’re building a strong case,” he said one afternoon. “The evidence is substantial. You were being monitored for a long time.”
Hearing that made my stomach churn. Some part of me had known. Some deeper part had not wanted to.
Later that week, Harper returned with a box of documents seized from Silas’s home office. Inside were journals filled with years of observations. He had noted my sleep patterns long before the pills began. He had recorded disagreements I barely remembered. He had measured how long I spent reading each night, which friends made me “less predictable,” which activities made me “overly independent.”
“He wasn’t supporting you,” Harper said. “He was refining control.”