4. Crossroads
Chapter 4
Crossroads
Hannah
B reathe in. Breathe out.
The mantra repeats in my head as I stand before the imposing oak doors of my lawyer’s office building. My reflection stares back at me from the polished brass handle—a pale face framed by disheveled brown hair that I attempted to tame this morning. Dark circles rim my eyes, a testament to another sleepless night spent jumping at every creak and shadow in my parents’ old house.
You can do this. You have to do this. For Cam.
My hand trembles as I reach for the door. The cool metal grounds me, reminds me that this is real. Not another nightmare where Charlie’s hands wrap around my throat, where his whispered threats become reality. This is me, taking back control of my life. One terrifying step at a time.
The lobby’s artificial lighting casts harsh shadows across the marble floor. My footsteps echo too loudly in the empty space, each click of my sensible shoes a thunderclap in the silence. The secretary—Linda, I remember from my previous visits—offers a sympathetic smile as I approach her desk.
“Mrs. Fisher.” Her voice is gentle, careful. Like she’s afraid speaking too loudly might shatter me. “Mr. Reynolds is expecting you. Go right in.”
Mrs. Fisher. The name sits like acid on my tongue. Soon, I won’t have to answer to it anymore. Soon, I’ll be Hannah Baumann again.
I force my lips into what I hope passes for a smile and push open the heavy wooden door to James Reynolds’s office. The familiar scent of leather and old books wraps around me like a security blanket. How many hours have I spent in this room over the past few months, picking apart the remains of my marriage?
James looks up from his desk, his salt-and-pepper hair combed and perfectly in place, reading glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose.
“Hannah.” He stands, gesturing to the chair across from him. “Please, sit.”
I sink into the leather armchair, my fingers automatically finding the worn spots on the armrests where countless others have gripped before me. Other women, maybe, seeking escape from their own monsters.
“I have news.” James settles back into his chair, shuffling through the papers spread across his desk. “The court date has been set.”
My heart stutters in my chest. This is what I’ve been waiting for since I first walked into his office five months ago, my face still bruised from Charlie’s last attack. “When?”
“Three weeks from today.” He peers at me over his glasses, his expression grave. “I won’t lie to you, Hannah. It’s going to be difficult. Charlie’s lawyer is already making noise about challenging the custody arrangement.”
Ice spreads through my veins. “He can’t—” My voice cracks. I swallow hard and try again. “He can’t take Cam. He won’t.”
“No, he won’t.” James’s voice carries the weight of absolute certainty. “We have documented evidence of abuse. Police reports. Hospital records. The testimony from that night.” He doesn’t elaborate, but we both know what night he means. The night Charlie finally went too far. The night Cam had to watch his mother nearly die.
My hands clench in my lap, knuckles white against the fabric of my skirt. “What do I need to do?”
“Be prepared for them to try to paint you as unstable. They’ll likely bring up the fact that you’ve been homeschooling Cameron, try to suggest you’ve been isolating him.” He shuffles through more papers. “They might even try to use your current living situation against you.”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “You mean living in my childhood home because I have nowhere else to go?”
“Exactly.” He sighs, removing his glasses to rub at his eyes. “Which brings me to the other matter we need to discuss. The financial settlement.”
“I don’t want his money.” The words come out sharp, automatic. The thought of taking anything from Charlie makes my skin crawl.
“Hannah.” James leans forward, his expression serious. “Listen to me. You’ve been a stay-at-home mother for twelve years. I know you helped with his campaign management, but that wasn’t a paid position. That leaves you with no work history, no independent income. The house needs major repairs. Cameron needs clothes, school supplies—”
“I have a job now.” I interrupt, though we both know my part-time position at Frank’s barely covers groceries.
“At minimum wage.” He counters gently. “You deserve more than that. The law entitles you to more than that.” He shuffles through his papers again, pulling out a document covered in highlighted sections. “Charlie’s family has money. Old money. The kind of money that could set you and Cameron up comfortably for years.”
My stomach turns. “I don’t want to be comfortable with his money. I want to be free of him.”
“I understand.” James’s voice softens. “But think about Cameron. Think about his future. College funds, healthcare, opportunities you might not be able to provide on your own. You’re not just fighting for yourself anymore.”
The truth of his words hurt. How many times had I dreamed of escaping Charlie, only to stay because I couldn’t bear the thought of Cam growing up in poverty? How many bruises had I hidden, telling myself it was worth it to give my son a better life than I’d had?
But that was before. Before Charlie’s rage finally exploded beyond control. Before Cam had to become the man of the house at twelve years old, protecting his mother because no one else could.
“What...” I have to stop, clear my throat. “What kind of settlement are we talking about?”
James slides a paper across his desk. Numbers swim before my eyes—amounts that make my head spin. “This is just the opening offer. We’ll likely be able to negotiate for more.”
“This is—” I can’t even say it. The figure on the page represents more money than I’d ever be able to make each month on my own.
“What you’re owed.” James finishes firmly. “For thirteen years of marriage. For the abuse you endured. For the sacrifices you made.” He pauses, letting that sink in. “But Hannah, you need to understand something. You’re going to have to face him in court. It means looking him in the eye while we lay out every horrible thing he did to you. Are you prepared for that?”
Am I? The thought of seeing Charlie again sends tremors through my body. I can almost feel his hands on me, hear his voice in my ear— You’re nothing without me. No one will ever want you. You’re lucky I put up with you.
But then I think of Cam. My beautiful, brave boy who shouldn’t have had to grow up so fast. Who deserves every opportunity I can give him. Who needs to see his mother stand up and fight back.
“Yes.” The word comes out stronger than I expected. “Yes, I can face him.”
James nods, satisfaction flickering across his features. “Good. Because Charlie’s lawyer has already indicated they plan to fight this every step of the way. His family’s reputation is at stake. They won’t go down quietly.”
“Let them fight.” Something hard and cold settles in my chest. “I’m not afraid anymore.”
It’s a lie, of course. I’m terrified. The Fisher family has deep roots, not just in southern Ohio, but in DC too. Money, influence, political connections—they could make my life hell if they wanted to. But I’ve spent thirteen years being afraid. Thirteen years walking on eggshells, measuring every word, every gesture, trying to avoid setting off Charlie’s temper.
I’m done being afraid.
James studies me for a long moment, then nods. “Alright. I’ll have my assistant draw up the preliminary paperwork.” He starts gathering documents into a neat pile. “We’ll need to go over your testimony again, make sure we haven’t missed anything. And Hannah?” He catches my eye. “No contact with Charlie or his family between now and the court date. Not even if they try to reach out through friends or mutual acquaintances. Everything goes through me. Understood?”
“Understood.” I stand on legs that feel surprisingly steady. “Is there anything else?”
“Just one thing.” He pulls out a final document. “We need to discuss what name you want to use after the divorce is final. Do you want to go back to your maiden name?”
Fisher. The name that once meant salvation, that I thought would give me everything I ever wanted. Now it feels like a collar around my throat, choking me with memories of pain and broken promises.
“Yes.” I don’t hesitate. “I want to be Hannah Baumann again.”
James makes a note. “I’ll add it to the paperwork.” He looks up at me, his expression softening slightly. “You’re doing the right thing, Hannah. Remember that when things get tough. Remember why you’re fighting.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. My throat feels too tight, my eyes burning with unshed tears. I turn to leave, but his voice stops me at the door.
“Hannah?” I look back. He’s still watching me, concern etched in the lines around his eyes. “If anything happens—anything at all—call me immediately. Day or night.”
A chill runs down my spine despite the warm spring air filtering through his window.
“I will.” I promise, then step out into the hallway before he can see the fear I know is written all over my face.
Linda gives me another sympathetic smile as I pass her desk. I wonder how many women like me she’s seen walk through these doors. How many stories like mine she’s witnessed unfold.
The lobby seems darker now, the shadows longer. Or maybe that’s just my imagination, tainted by thoughts of what’s to come. My heels click against the marble floor— tick, tick, tick —like a countdown to something inevitable.
Outside, the spring sun is almost blinding after the dim interior of the office building. I pause on the steps, letting the warmth seep into my skin. People pass by on the sidewalk, going about their daily lives. None of them know what’s happening behind these prestigious doors. None of them can see the war being waged in conference rooms and courthouses.
My phone buzzes in my purse. For a heart-stopping moment, I think it might be Charlie—but no, it’s a text from Cam.
Cam
You okay, Mom?
My sweet, worried boy. Always checking on me, always trying to protect me. It should be the other way around.
I type back quickly.
Hannah
All good. Heading to work now. Love you.
Cam
Love you too. Be safe.
Be safe. Such a simple phrase, but it carries the weight of everything we’ve been through. Everything we’re still going through.
I take one last look at the imposing building behind me, its windows reflecting the spring sky like mirrors. Somewhere in there, the machinery of justice is grinding into motion. In three weeks, I’ll have to face Charlie again. Face his anger, his accusations, his attempts to maintain control over me and Cam.
But this time will be different. This time, I’m not alone.
This time, I’m fighting back.
I straighten my shoulders and start down the steps, each click of my heels against the concrete a declaration. I am Hannah Baumann. I am stronger than my fear. I am more than what he made me.
And I am ready for war.
The bell above Frank’s door jingles as another customer enters, pulling me from my brooding. I force a smile and straighten my apron, trying to focus on the present moment rather than the weight of everything else pressing down on me. The smell of pizza and grilled burgers fills the small space, mingling with the sweetness of ice cream. It should be comforting. Instead, it reminds me how far I’ve fallen.
From hosting charity galas to scooping ice cream. The thought comes unbidden, Charlie’s sneering voice echoing in my head. I push it away, refusing to let him have any more space in my mind than he’s already claimed.
“Two scoops of chocolate, please.” The young girl at the counter bounces on her toes, pigtails swinging. Her mother stands behind her, phone pressed to her ear, only half paying attention.
“Coming right up.” I reach for the scoop, grateful for the distraction. The familiar motions ground me—dig deep, twist, tap. The chocolate ice cream curls perfectly onto the cone. “Would you like sprinkles with that?”
The girl’s eyes light up. “Yes, please!”
As I add rainbow sprinkles, careful to cover every inch of ice cream, my mind drifts to Cameron. He used to look at sweets that way, with pure joy untainted by worry or fear. Before Charlie’s rage turned our home into a battlefield. Before we had to measure every word, every action, against the possibility of setting him off.
Stop it. I hand the cone to the girl, making sure she has a good grip before letting go. He can’t hurt us anymore.
But even as I think it, doubt gnaws at my certainty. The divorce papers have been filed, but Charlie’s reach extends far beyond prison walls. His family’s influence could make things difficult. They could challenge my custody of Cam, dig up every mistake I’ve ever made.
The bell jingles again. I look up, expecting another customer, but instead find Charlotte Weber standing in the doorway. She owns A Cut Above, the beauty salon across the street. Sunlight catches her blonde hair, making it shimmer like spun gold. She’s exactly the kind of woman I used to envy when I was younger—effortlessly beautiful, seemingly untouched by life’s harder edges.
“Hannah!” She makes her way to the counter, genuine warmth in her smile. “How are you settling in?”
The question carries more weight than its casual delivery suggests. Everyone knows why I’m back in Beaver. Everyone’s heard about Charlie, about what he did. About how my perfect life in Waverly was nothing but a carefully constructed lie.
“I’m managing.” I wipe my hands on my apron, buying time to compose myself. “Still getting used to being home again.”
Charlotte’s expression softens with understanding. And I guess she does understand. She too moved away and created a life in Chicago only to have it blow up in her face and force her to move home. “It must be strange being back.”
Strange doesn’t begin to cover it. Everything about being home feels like walking through a funhouse mirror—familiar shapes twisted into almost unrecognizable forms. The streets are the same, but the businesses have changed. Old friends have moved away, replaced by strangers who know me only as “that poor Fisher girl who married Charlie.”
“It’s different.” I settle for saying. “But good different, I think. Cam seems happier here.”
“How is he adjusting?” She leans against the counter, her presence somehow both casual and purposeful. “It must be a big change for him too.”
My throat tightens. Sweet, protective Cameron who spent so many nights standing guard outside my bedroom door after Charlie’s rages. Who learned to read the subtle shifts in Charlie’s moods better than any twelve-year-old should have to.
“He’s...” I trail off, unsure how to explain that while Cam might be safer here, he’s also more isolated than ever. “It’s complicated. He’s been homeschooled his whole life, and with work now—” The weight of everything I need to figure out threatens to overwhelm me again.
“That must be tough.” Charlotte’s voice carries no judgment, just quiet empathy. “Have you thought about enrolling him in school here?”
The idea sends a spike of anxiety through my chest. Charlie always insisted on homeschooling, claiming it was better for Cam’s education. But I knew the real reason—he couldn’t risk anyone noticing how much Cam looked like Liam. Couldn’t stand the thought of people putting together the timing and figuring out the truth.
“I’ve thought about it.” I focus on restocking the napkin dispenser, needing something to do with my hands. “But he’s never been in a traditional school setting. I worry about him falling behind or not fitting in.”
“Kids are resilient,” Charlotte says gently. “And the school here is good. Small classes, caring teachers.” She pauses, then adds, “Plus, it might be good for him to make some friends his own age.”
She’s right, of course. Cam needs more than just me. He needs a chance at a normal life, something I couldn’t give him under Charlie’s control. But the thought of sending him into that unknown territory alone makes my heart race.
“I’ll think about it.” I manage a small smile. “Right now I’m just trying to get us settled. The house needs so much work.”
“Oh! That reminds me.” Charlotte straightens, her eyes brightening. “Garret mentioned you might need some appliances?”
I blink, surprised. “How did he—”
“Small town.” She waves off my question with a laugh before I can even get it out. “Word gets around. Anyway, he has a lead on some good used stuff. Stove, washer, dryer—basics to get you started.”
The generosity of the offer catches me off guard. In Waverly, kindness always came with strings attached. Charlie’s friends’ wives would invite me to lunch, but only to gather gossip. Their husbands would offer business advice, but only to remind me of my place in their social hierarchy.
“I couldn’t possibly—” I start to protest, but Charlotte cuts me off.
“You absolutely can.” Her tone brooks no argument. “Garret’s coming by Saturday to check things out. What time works for you?”
My eyes burn with unexpected tears. “Charlotte, I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Then don’t.” She reaches across the counter to squeeze my hand. “Just let us help. That’s what neighbors are for, right?”
The bell jingles again as more customers enter. Charlotte steps back, but not before giving my hand one final squeeze. “Saturday?”
I nod, not trusting my voice. She beams.
“Perfect! I’ll let Garret know. And Hannah?” She pauses at the door. “It’s good to have you home.”
As she leaves, I watch her cross the street back to her salon. Through the window, I can see her laughing with a customer, completely at ease in her world. Part of me yearns for that kind of certainty, that sense of belonging somewhere.
But another part—the part that still flinches at sudden movements and wakes up gasping from nightmares—wonders if I’ll ever feel that comfortable anywhere again.
The afternoon rush keeps me busy, a steady stream of customers ordering ice cream and pizza. Each interaction gets a little easier, the smiles feeling less forced. An elderly woman tells me about her granddaughter’s ballet recital. Mr. Jenkins asks after Cam, genuine concern in his weathered face. Old Mr. Thompson leaves an extra large tip, patting my hand like my grandfather used to do.
Small kindnesses. Simple gestures that somehow mean more than all the expensive gifts Charlie ever gave me.
As the sun starts to set, casting long shadows through Frank’s front windows, I begin the closing routine. Wiping down counters, restocking napkins, counting the day’s earnings. The familiar tasks help quiet my racing thoughts, but they can’t completely silence the worry that’s become my constant companion.
I still have so much to figure out. The house feels like it’s falling apart more every day. The bathroom sink leaks worse than it did when we moved in, the back steps are rotting, and half the electrical outlets don’t work. Cam needs proper schooling, a chance at a normal life. And hovering over everything is the knowledge that Charlie could destroy it all with one phone call to his lawyers.
One day at a time , I remind myself, just like my therapist taught me during those weeks in protective custody. You can’t solve everything at once.