“Where are you?” I asked, my voice dropping to a whisper as the elevator doors closed.

“My place,” Courtney whispered back, her voice shaking. “The penthouse on Fourth. He’s furious, Shelby. He knows I took the DNA test.”

I heard a heavy thud in the background, like a fist hitting solid oak, followed by the rattle of metal fixtures.

“Open the door, Courtney,” Jared’s voice muffled through the phone line, distant but sharp.

“I’m calling the police,” I told her, my fingers tightening on the cold plastic of my phone. “Keep the line open. Do not let him in.”

“He has a key,” she sobbed. “He’s trying the deadbolt. Shelby, please—”

I hung up and immediately dialed 911, giving the operator her address and reporting a domestic disturbance in progress.

I did not go to her.

If I went, Jared would see me coming, and he would find a way to spin the narrative before the night was through.

Instead, I drove back to my temporary apartment, my hands gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white under the streetlights.