My real signature looked nothing like the elegant, practiced script Rylan had forged.

Vance handed me a business card with a case number scribbled on the back.

“Do you have a safe place to sleep tonight, Mrs. Miller?”

“It’s Calla,” I said. “And yes. I’m going to a motel.”

I walked out of the station just after midnight.

The rain had stopped, leaving the pavement glittering under the orange streetlights.

I sat in my car and dialed my attorney, Sarah.

She answered on the fourth ring, her voice thick with sleep.

“Calla? Is everything okay?”

“I have the proof,” I said. “I just left the police station. The report is filed.”

There was a pause on the line, followed by the rustle of sheets as she sat up.

“Are you safe?” she asked.

“I am,” I said. “But I want him out. I want him out of my house tomorrow.”

“I’ll draft the divorce petition tonight,” Sarah said, her tone shifting to professional focus.

“I’ll couple it with an emergency eviction notice based on the fraud report.”

“Can we serve him in the morning?” I asked.