“What’s happened?”
“Fabian came over. He’s angry about the custody papers.”
“Are you safe?”
There was a long pause.
“Just please come.”
When I arrived, Fabian’s truck was gone.
Emily was standing in the garage, surrounded by an overturned storage shelf and broken flowerpots.
Muddy footprints covered the concrete floor.
I recognized the tread immediately.
Fabian had owned the same heavy work boots for years.
One heel had a damaged edge, leaving a distinctive notch in every muddy print.
Emily wouldn’t tell me everything that night.
She only said she’d started keeping records of their disagreements because her attorney had advised her to document anything relevant to the children.
A few days later, she showed me a thick blue folder.
“If anything happens,” she said, “this is where I’ve kept everything.”
“What do you mean, if anything happens?”
“I just want you to know where it is.”
She made me promise not to mention it to Fabian.
