Chapter 43 #2
You couldn't have known. I thought the same as you when I was with him.
She read it, wiping at her eyes with shaking hands. "The police told me what happened. That you fought him. That you—" Her voice broke. "That you ended him."
I nodded slowly, watching her face for any sign of anger or blame.
"Thank you," she whispered.
The words hung in the air between us. Thank you. For killing her husband. For ending her living nightmare—our living nightmares.
I'm sorry you had to go through this. That he hurt you too.
"I tried to leave him," she said suddenly. "After that night at the restaurant, after what you said—it stayed with me. I’d hidden some clothes away, thinking I would get out. Then something changed. I know he thought he’d killed me.
Left me for dead at the bottom of those stairs.
" Tears ran down her face as she shared her story.
"I woke in the hospital, not knowing what happened—my last memory of his hands at my throat and my world going dark.
When the police told me what happened." She laughed bitterly. "Oh, the relief I felt. Almost joy really. It washed over me in that moment and I don’t know if I’ve ever felt as safe as I did right then. "
Where are you staying now?
"My sister's. In Connecticut. I drove down today just to see you. To give you this." She held out the phone. "I thought you should have it. For evidence or closure or whatever you need. The police already made copies of everything."
Nice of them to have copies and not shared all of this with me. I felt bitterness, but I tamped it down, knowing it wasn’t helpful—knowing I didn’t need it anymore. Looking at the phone though, I held my hands up, not wanting to feel the weight of it again. All those photos. All that planning.
Keep it or destroy it. I don't want it.
She nodded, taking it back and slipping it into her purse. "I'll get rid of it then. Wipe it and donate or something."
We sat there for a moment in the kind of silence only two people who'd survived the same monster could share.
"Can I ask you something?" Diane said quietly.
I nodded.
"Does it get better? The nightmares? The jumping at every sound?"
I thought about the past few weeks. About waking up screaming. About checking locks three times. About the baseball bat by the door that I still couldn't bring myself to move.
It gets different. Some days are better than others. But yeah, it gets better.
Diane nodded slowly, her fingers twisting the strap of her purse. "I had to identify him, you know? At the morgue." She said it matter-of-factly, like she was talking about picking up dry cleaning. "They asked if I wanted someone to come with me—my sister offered—but I went alone."
She looked up at me, her eyes dry. "I thought I'd feel something.
Relief, maybe. Or fear. Or anger. Something.
Even joy." Her voice dropped to almost a whisper.
"But I stood there looking at him on that table, and I felt.
.. nothing. Like I was looking at a stranger. Like I'd never known him at all."
I waited, letting her process.
"Is that wrong?" she asked. "That I felt nothing?"
I shook my head slowly, then reached for my phone.
Not wrong. It's survival. Your mind is protecting you from the monster he was.
"I kept thinking I should cry. That someone should cry for him." She gave a bitter laugh. "But I couldn't. I just signed the papers and left—turned his body over to his family."
I sat there, offering the only thing I could—silent understanding. In that moment, words felt inadequate, even intrusive. So we existed together in the quiet aftermath of survival, two women who'd escaped the same storm, now sitting in its wreckage.
"I'm going to therapy," she said, breaking the silence of the moments that had ticked by. "Starting next week. My sister found someone who works with women like me—like us."
Good. That's really good.
"What about you?"
I hadn't thought about therapy. Hadn't thought about anything beyond getting through each day, getting these wires out, getting my voice back.
Maybe. Eventually. I don’t really know.
Diane stood carefully, holding her side, seeming like a mirror of myself. "I should go. I've taken up enough of your time."
I walked her to the door, unlocking it slowly.
She paused in the doorway. "If you ever need to talk—someone who gets it—my sister gave me a new number. Would it be okay if I texted it to you?"
Yes. Please.
She pulled out her phone, and I gave her my number. A moment later, my phone buzzed with her contact information.
"Thank you again," she said. "For everything. For fighting back. For surviving. For giving me the power to believe I could too."
She turned toward the door, her shoulders hunched as she moved carefully on crutches. When she looked back, her mascara had drawn thin black rivers down her cheeks, and her hand lingered on the doorframe for three heartbeats before she stepped through.
I closed the door, locked it, and slid down to sit on the floor with my back against it.
Bryce had been planning this for months. Taking photos. Watching me. Watching my children.
And if he'd succeeded—if Reed hadn't found me—no one would have ever known.
I'd spent weeks thinking about what Bryce had taken from me. My voice. My sense of safety. My ability to trust. But he hadn't taken everything. And he hadn't won.
I pulled myself up, locked the door one more time for good measure, and went back to the living room. Just days until these wires came out. Until I could start living again without flinching at my own reflection. I could wait just a little longer. I'd survived worse.