“I’m not leaving you,” she said, her voice trembling but firm.

“Go,” I commanded, keeping my voice as low as possible.

She hesitated for a second, then stood up, her cast scraping slightly against the edge of the wooden table.

She retreated into the dark hallway, her bare feet making no sound on the old rugs.

I reached into the utility drawer near the sink.

My fingers brushed past old receipts, batteries, and a flashlight, finally settling on the heavy iron key-turn tool we used for the water main.

It was cold, solid, and heavy enough to do damage.

I gripped it in my right hand and slid it into the pocket of my cardigan.

The footsteps reached the wooden steps of the front porch.

The wood groaned under a heavy weight.

I waited, my breath shallow, my eyes fixed on the outline of the front door.

Instead of a knock, there was a metallic scrape.

The sound of something being slid under the door.

A white envelope slid across the linoleum floor, stopping just short of the kitchen rug.

Then, the footsteps retreated.