Page 132 of Her Ex-Husband's Brother

His hand is still in mine.

Blood shines across his knuckles. His or Jake’s, or maybe even mine? I don’t know anymore. The night is made of mud and sirens and the smell of gasoline, and every part of me is shaking. But August’s fingers close around mine like an anchor.

The cruiser doors fly open.

“Get on the ground!” a male officer shouts.

Jake drops immediately to his knees in the mud, hands still up, perfect as a repentant in a church painting.

August lets go of my hand because he knows what they’re seeing.

Big man with tattoos and blood on his fists. While another man with a bloody face is on the ground screaming for help.

August lifts his hands slowly, palms out, and there’s something so practiced in the movement that my heart breaks through the rage for one sharp second.

How many times has he had to make himself harmless for people who already decided he wasn’t?

“Don’t,” I say, my voice barely making it past my throat.

August’s eyes flick to mine. I see how afraid he is, because he knows how this story usually goes. He’s been trapped in it his whole life.

“Ma’am, step back!” the male officer shouts.

No.

No, absolutely not.

I have stepped backenough.

I have backed out of rooms, and backed down in arguments.

I have questioned my own memory because Jake stood there so calm and everyone else looked so uncomfortable. It’s always felt easier to question my reality than to force anyone to choose between us.

But never again.

The male officer moves toward August, one hand hovering near his belt, eyes locked on August’s bloody knuckles.

“Don’t touch him,” I shout.

He glances at me like I am another hazard on the scene. “Ma’am, I need you to move back.”

“Jake kidnapped me. The man on his knees closest to you. He’s my husband.”

Jake makes a wounded sound from the pavement.

“My wife hit her head,” Jake tells the officers. “She’s confused. My brother attacked me. He’s mentally ill.”

There it is.

The story he has always told best: his hysterical wife and his unstable brother, both of us too damaged to be believed.

August raises his hands, making himself harmless for people who have already decided he isn’t.

For ten years, I have stepped backward whenever Jake began rewriting reality.

Not this time.

“Don’t touch him,” I shout. “My husband kidnapped me, poisoned me, and now he is trying to use his brother’s diagnosis to make you ignore everything I say.”