“Dad would never allow this.”
Her smile turned cold.
“Dad isn’t here anymore,” she said quietly.
“I am.”
Then she pulled out her phone and made a call.
About an hour later, a man named Mike walked through the door. He looked around the house like he was already measuring where his furniture would go.
“Break the door if you have to,” Veronica told him, pointing toward the guest room.
“She doesn’t belong here.”
That was when fear finally gave way to panic.
I called the police.
They arrived quickly and stopped things from escalating, but I understood the truth — staying in that house with Veronica was no longer possible.
So I packed what I could and left.
That night I ended up in a women’s shelter, exhausted and terrified about what the future held.
As I dragged my suitcase across the floor, something slipped out of one of the pockets.
A large envelope.
My heart skipped when I recognized it.
