I had kept writing anyway.

It was my only remaining connection to the outside world.

My phone vibrated on the counter, the sharp buzz making me jump.

It was a text from Detective Harris.

“Just checking in. Keep the doors locked.”

I stared at the blue bubble on the screen.

Harris had been helpful, almost too helpful, since I filed the protective order.

He had visited the house yesterday, his eyes scanning the high-end appliances and the security panel.

“Nice place,” Harris had said, his voice low. “Very secure.”

“I need to feel safe,” I had told him.

“Safety is a relative term,” he had replied, giving me a look I couldn’t quite read.

He told me to call his personal cell, not the station, if I saw Julian’s black sedan.

I didn’t reply to his text.

Instead, I went back to my blog dashboard and hit “Publish.”

The page refreshed.

The post was live.

I leaned back in my chair, listening to the quiet hum of the smart refrigerator.

The kitchen smelled faintly of garlic and cooked spinach.

I stood up to clean the prep area, wiping down the polished quartz countertop with a damp cloth.

I put the remaining olive oil back on the shelf in the pantry.

It was an expensive, artisanal brand from a small grove in Tuscany, packaged in a distinct dark green bottle with a red wax seal.

Julian had bought a case of it before everything fell apart.

I kept using it because I refused to let him dictate what I kept.

My laptop chimed.

The first comment had arrived.

I walked back to the island and looked at the screen.

A user named “HealthyBites” wrote: “Can’t wait to try this! Perfect for my weekly meal prep.”

Another chime sounded.

“Glad to see you posting again, Clara. We missed you,” wrote “Sarah_K.”