Betrayal burned through my chest, white-hot and suffocating.
She'd promised. Held my hand in that sterile courtroom and promised we'd keep each other safe. That telling the truth meant he couldn't hurt us anymore.
Liar.
"I'm afraid she was pressured," Marsha said quietly. "I don't think she wanted to do this, Liv. I think he got to her somehow. Through someone. A lawyer, a family member—someone convinced her or threatened her or?—"
"When?"
The question came out flat. Dead.
Marsha's face crumpled slightly. "Three weeks. Maybe less. The paperwork is already moving."
Three weeks.
I had three weeks before the man who'd shattered my childhood walked free.
Three weeks before he could find me.
"This is a joke." My voice came out strangled. Desperate. "Tell me this is a joke."
Marsha shook her head slowly. "I wish it was, sweetheart. But the paperwork's already filed. The appeal was granted yesterday afternoon."
Something inside me cracked.
Not broke—I'd been broken before, knew what that felt like. This was different. Sharper. Like watching the foundation of a house you'd spent years rebuilding crumble back into rubble.
Rage surged first. Hot and bitter and so intense my hands curled into fists before I could stop them. She promised. My mother had looked me in the eye and sworn we'd both stay safe. That telling the truth meant freedom for both of us.
Fear chased the rage—cold and suffocating, flooding through my veins until I couldn't feel my fingers. He'll find me. He always found things he wanted to destroy. Always knew how to track down what tried to escape him.
And underneath both emotions, helplessness wrapped around my ribs like a vice. I'd done everything right. Left. Started over. Built something clean and separate from all that blood and screaming.
For nothing.
"Why?" The word scraped out of my throat. "Why would she take it back? Why now?"
"I don't know." Marsha's expression twisted with something that looked like shared fury. "But I intend to find out."
My thoughts spiraled faster than I could catch them.
I just got out. I just—one week. One week of feeling safe.
He'll come here. He'll find this address. He'll?—
What did he promise her? What did he threaten? How did he reach her from inside?
Why does she always choose him?
The numbness hit suddenly. Completely.
Like someone had flipped a switch and shut down every emotion flooding through me, replaced it all with static. My hands stopped shaking. My breathing evened out. The panic receded into something distant and manageable.
I knew this feeling. Recognized it from childhood—the way my brain protected itself when things got too big to process. Shut everything down. Went cold and blank and functional.
Survival mode.
"Liv?" Marsha leaned forward, worry creasing her features. "Sweetheart, talk to me."
