“Thank God you’re here,” David projected, his voice laced with the perfect amount of husbandly distress. “My wife had a terrible fall. She’s hysterical. She’s been struggling with her mental health, and she just lost her footing.”
The officers moved toward the door, their hands resting cautiously on their duty belts. But my father didn’t look at David. He walked straight past him, his heavy shoes tracking rainwater onto the pristine rug, his eyes locked entirely on me lying on the kitchen floor.
His face didn’t change expression. But his eyes—usually warm when he looked at me—were pitch black.
A female officer stepped into the kitchen, attempting to move around David to get to me.
“Sir, I need you to step aside, please,” the officer instructed firmly.
“This is my house, officer,” David barked, his authoritative facade slipping just a fraction. “I am explaining the situation to you.”
“No,” I said.
My voice wasn’t a scream. It was a sharp, clear command. I planted my elbows against the floor and forced my upper body upward, ignoring the nauseating wave of pain that rolled through me.
Everyone in the room turned.
“It is not his house,” I stated, swallowing hard to keep my voice from trembling. “This is premarital property. The deed is entirely in my name. It was recorded in the county clerk’s office three years before our marriage.”
Margaret went completely pale, her hand flying to her throat.
Leave a Comment