My sister Claire arrived in twelve minutes, driving like the devil himself was chasing her.
By then, Mia had stopped crying, but she would not let go of my coat. Ethan sat on the curb beside me, silent in that frightening way children become when they understand too much but have no words for it.
Claire jumped out before the car fully stopped.
“Natalie,” she gasped, seeing my face.
“I’m okay,” I lied.
Her eyes moved to the children, then to the house glowing behind us. Through the window, Vanessa’s silhouette crossed the living room like she had already moved in.
Claire’s expression hardened. “Get in the car.”
As we drove away, Brent called eleven times. I did not answer. Then the texts started.
You’re being dramatic.
Bring the kids back.
You have no money.
You’ll regret this.
The last one came at 11:42 p.m.
If you try to use that video, I’ll destroy you.
I screenshotted everything.
Claire took us to her townhouse in Columbus. She put the children in her guest room, made hot chocolate, and sat beside me while I opened my laptop with shaking hands.
The kitchen camera had captured everything.
The papers. Vanessa entering. Brent slapping me. His words. The children screaming. My four words at the door.
Claire covered her mouth. “Oh my God.”
“I need a lawyer,” I said.
“No,” she replied. “You need the right lawyer.”
