I pressed the record button on my phone, holding it toward the frosted glass window beside the door.

“Go away,” I called out, my voice trembling despite my effort to keep it steady.

“The police are on their way.”

The man did not flinch on the security feed.

He looked toward the window, his expression completely neutral under his dark cap.

“Julian just wants to resolve this quietly,” the man said through the wood.

“He knows about the offshore transfers you flagged. If you sign the custody agreement, the financial dispute goes away.”

“I am not signing anything,” I said.

“He has resources, Elena. This cottage is not as safe as you think.”

The man set the small brown package down on the wooden porch bench.

“Think about Harrison,” he said.

He turned, walked down the steps, and disappeared into the dark Maine pines.

A minute later, the blue and red lights of a local sheriff’s cruiser flashed against the trees.

The deputy took my statement and collected the package from the porch.

Inside was a draft of a custody agreement, heavily tilted in Julian’s favor.