I recognized Vanessa’s.
And I recognized photographs attached to the back.
One showed bruising around her upper arm.
Another showed a cracked bedroom door.
Another showed a long scratch down the side of a car.
My stomach turned.
“Did you do this?”
Evan stared at me.
“No.”
Vanessa said, “He did.”
“She’s lying.”
“Then why did she file for a protective order?”
“Because she wanted revenge.”
“For what?”
He did not answer.
That silence again.
It was becoming unbearable.
I turned to Vanessa.
“Why was it dismissed?”
Her face changed.
“Because I didn’t show up to the final hearing.”
“Why not?”
She looked at Evan.
He stared back at her.
Vanessa swallowed.
“Because three days before the hearing, someone broke into my apartment.”
My skin prickled.
“Nothing was stolen,” she continued. “But the folder with all my evidence was sitting on my kitchen table.”
Evan shook his head.
“This is insane.”
“There was a red ribbon tied around it.”
I looked at him.
That meant nothing to me.
But it obviously meant something to Vanessa.
She reached under the neckline of her dress and pulled out a thin red ribbon tied around a chain.
“He used to put these on gifts when he apologized.”
For a second, nobody spoke.
Then Evan laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because he was cornered.
“You came to my wedding dressed like that because of a ribbon?”
“I wore red because you spent three years teaching me that red meant you had hurt me and wanted me to forget.”
I felt sick.
Suddenly the dress did not seem dramatic.
It seemed deliberate.
A warning I had not understood.
I looked at Evan.
He reached for me.
I moved away.
“Brianna, listen to me.”
“Did you break into her apartment?”
“No.”
“Did you ever hurt her?”
“No.”
Vanessa said, “Ask him about the stairs.”
Evan’s expression changed.
It happened so quickly that I almost missed it.
But I saw it.
“What stairs?” I asked.
“Brianna—”
“What stairs?”
Vanessa’s voice trembled.
“The reason our engagement ended.”
Evan turned toward her.
“Enough.”
“No,” I said. “Let her talk.”
He looked at me.
“You are going to believe a woman you met 30 seconds ago over the man you’ve been with for four years?”
That was exactly the question he wanted me to ask myself.
And for a second, it worked.
I knew Evan.
I knew how he took his coffee.
