Not with regret.
Not with guilt.
Only irritation.
As though I had made him do it.
As though somehow it was my fault.
Then he shrugged.
He actually shrugged.
And walked upstairs.
A moment later, his bedroom door slammed.
I stayed where I was.
One hand pressed against my cheek.
That was when I understood something terrifying.
I was not safe in my own home.
At 1:17 a.m., I picked up my phone.
I stared at Richard’s number for almost five minutes.
We had been divorced for eleven years. We spoke from time to time. Birthdays. Holidays. Family emergencies. Nothing beyond that.
I hated the thought of calling him.
But I hated what had just happened even more.
Finally, I pressed dial.
He answered on the third ring.
“Rebecca?”
His voice was thick with sleep.
I opened my mouth.
No sound came out.
Then I forced the words through the lump in my throat.
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