Brandon looked at me.

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.

“Brandon hit me.”

Silence.

Total silence.

For several seconds, all I could hear was his breathing.

Then his voice came back.

Calm.

Controlled.

Dangerously calm.

“I’m coming.”

The call ended.

I did not sleep.

Instead, I cleaned.

I cooked.

I thought.

By four in the morning, bacon was sizzling in a skillet. Eggs were staying warm in the oven. Fresh biscuits cooled on the counter. Coffee filled the kitchen with a rich, dark smell.

I took the embroidered tablecloth from the hall closet.

The expensive one.

The one saved for holidays and special occasions.

I polished the silverware.

Set the plates.

Folded the napkins.

Everything looked perfect.

Because this was a special occasion.

Not a celebration.

A turning point.

Just before six, headlights crossed the front windows.

Richard had arrived.

His hair was grayer now. His shoulders seemed broader. His expression was harder.

He stepped inside carrying a leather folder.

One look at my face told him everything.

His jaw tightened.

“Where is he?”

“Upstairs.”

“Asleep?”

I nodded.

Richard placed the folder on the table. His eyes moved over the carefully prepared breakfast.

“You only do this when something important is happening.”

I swallowed. “It ends today.”

He studied me for a long moment.

Then he nodded.

“Good.”

He opened the folder.

Inside were documents.

Legal papers.

Program brochures.

Protection order forms.

Resources I had been too frightened to look at before.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

I closed my eyes.

I remembered Brandon at six years old.

At ten.

At fifteen.

Then I remembered the sound of that slap.

I opened my eyes.

“Yes.”

Richard nodded once. “Then we do this properly.”

A few minutes later, footsteps sounded overhead.

The stairs creaked.

Brandon was awake.

And he had no idea what was waiting for him.

He entered the kitchen yawning.

His hair was messy.

His confidence was fully intact.

Then he saw the breakfast.

The tablecloth.

The spread.

A grin spread across his face.

“Well, look at that,” he said. “You finally figured it out.”

He reached for a biscuit.

Then his eyes landed on Richard.

The biscuit slipped from his fingers.

“What’s he doing here?”

Richard stayed seated. “Sit down, Brandon.”

“What?”

“Sit.”

Something in Richard’s tone made him obey.

Reluctantly.

Brandon dropped into a chair.

“This is ridiculous.”

Richard slid the folder toward him. “No. What’s ridiculous is hitting your mother and thinking nothing changes.”

“I didn’t hit her.”

“You did.”

“It was an argument.”

“You hit her.”

“It was just a slap.”

Richard’s eyes narrowed. “You hear yourself?”

Brandon turned to me. “So this is what we’re doing now?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

Richard opened the folder.

“This is a temporary protection order.”

Brandon laughed. “You’re kidding.”

“No.”

Richard continued.

“This revokes access to your mother’s accounts.”

Another document.