He had forged my name.

I needed a lawyer, someone who knew how to handle fraud and domestic abuse.

I thought of Marisol, the sharp-eyed attorney whose firm I worked for.

She had helped other women escape husbands like Derek.

I stared at the document, wondering how he got my personal details.

And who had sent that text message?

It had to be someone close to his business dealings.

Perhaps a former partner.

I folded the paper and slipped it into my purse.

Suddenly, the front door lock clicked.

The heavy wooden door began to swing open.

I shoved the paper into my purse and zipped it shut.

The heavy wooden door swung wide, and Derek stepped into the foyer.

He looked tired, his silk tie loosened and his eyes bloodshot.

“What are you doing standing in the dark?” he asked, his voice sharp.

“Just looking for my blue sweater,” I said, keeping my voice as steady as possible.

I stepped past him, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“You look pale,” he said, reaching out to touch my burned shoulder.

I flinched back from his hand.