Chapter 12
Walls down?
Maliyah
The glow from the TV cast flickering shadows across the living room as I sat in the dark, watching the camera feeds. Front door. Balcony. Windows. Nothing moved except the occasional car passing by, headlights sweeping across the screens before disappearing into the night.
When I'd gone through the evening routine with the kids—dinner, baths, bedtime stories—my mind held onto its memory of Bryce's smile. That cold, calculating smile that said he knew exactly how much he'd rattled me.
I have a feeling we will.
No we will not see each other again. I'll do all I can to prevent it.
My phone buzzed. Reed's name lit up the screen.
Reed: On my way. Be there in ten.
I stared at the message. I should tell him. I should tell him about Bryce, about why I'm sitting here in the dark with cameras on and a chair wedged under the door. But he'd said he wanted to talk about something important. Something about him, not me.
I typed back: Okay. See you soon.
The apartment felt too quiet. Every creak of the floorboards above made my shoulders tense. Every car door slam sent my pulse spiking. I kept my pepper spray in my pocket, within reach. My Sig was secured in my holster with me all night now.
When the buzzer rang at nine fifty-two, I jumped.
"Hello?" My voice came out steadier than I felt.
"Hey, it's me."
I buzzed him up, then looked at the chair still wedged under the door handle. Shit. I yanked it away and shoved it back toward the dining table just as his footsteps hit the landing.
When I opened the door, Reed looked conflicted and mussed. His hair was messier than usual, like he'd been running his hands through it repeatedly, and there was something vulnerable in his expression I hadn't seen before.
"Hi," I said, stepping aside to let him in.
"Hi." He leaned in and kissed me—slow and lingering, his hand coming up to cup my jaw.
When he pulled back, his thumb brushed across my cheekbone as his eyes searched mine.
Then he followed me into the living room, and I watched his eyes sweep the space—taking in the details the way cops do.
His gaze landed on the TV, still showing the camera feeds.
Then back to me. His eyes traveled down, pausing at my waistband where the holster was visible under my sweater.
He didn't move further into the room. Just stood there, taking it all in.
"Maliyah." His voice was quiet, careful. "Why are you wearing your gun in your apartment?"
I opened my mouth, closed it again. The carefully rehearsed explanations evaporated.
"And what’s up with the cameras," he continued, gesturing to the TV. "You're monitoring every entrance."
"I have coffee," I said, moving toward the kitchen. "Let me just—"
"Maliyah." His hand caught my wrist, gentle but firm. "Talk to me. What happened?"
The concern in his voice, the way he was looking at me—like I was something precious that might break—undid something in my chest. I'd been holding it together all evening, going through the motions with the kids, sitting here alone in the dark telling myself I was fine. I was handling it.
But I wasn't fine.
"I saw someone today," I said, the words coming out rushed. "At the farmer's market. After you left."
Reed went completely still. "Who?"
"Bryce." Just saying his name out loud made my hands start shaking. "My ex. He was there with his wife. He saw the kids, Reed. He was trying to get me to share things about what I’m doing now."
I watched Reed's expression shift—concern bleeding into something harder, more controlled. His jaw clenched, and when he spoke, his voice had that careful cop tone. "Did he threaten you?"
"Not directly. But he said—" I had to take a breath. "He said he had a feeling we'd run into each other again. It wasn't a question, Reed. It felt like he was making me a promise."
"Okay." Reed's hand slid from my wrist to my hand, his fingers lacing through mine. "Okay. Come sit down. Tell me everything."
He guided me to the couch, and I realized my legs were shaking too. How long had I been standing here wound so tight?
"Start from the beginning," Reed said, angling toward me on the couch. "What did he say? What did he do?"
So I told him. The whole encounter—how creepy he was, the comment about my body, the way he'd looked at Lucas and Zoe. Diane standing there silent and deferential. The veiled questions about my life. The way he'd watched us leave.
Reed listened without interrupting, but I could see the fury building behind his careful expression. His body was eerily still, though.
"When I got home," I finished, "I did what I used to do for the first few years after I left him. Cameras on, chair under the door, armed." I looked down at our joined hands. "Old habits."
"I want to ask you something. You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready, but I think it would help."
"Okay. Go for it."
Reed leaned forward, his voice gentle. "Can you tell me anything about what happened between you two? I'm trying to understand why seeing him scared you this much."
I took a shaky breath, trying to find words that wouldn't completely fall apart saying.
"He... he had some issues. I had to learn to be careful with everything as to not set him off with a misunderstanding.
" I looked down at our joined hands. "Eventually I just left.
Took off and moved to Florida without a word. Started over completely."
"Okay. How long ago was this?"
"A long time." I swallowed hard at that. "Long enough that I didn’t think it would ever be an issue again. But... do you think I could leave it there for tonight? I’m not sure I have it in me to go any deeper right now."
Reed squeezed my hand, then lifted it to his lips.
The brush of his mouth against my skin sent warmth spreading through me—safe.
I felt safe. His gaze held mine—unwavering, certain—as if he could see straight through to all the broken pieces I'd been trying to hide.
"There's no pressure," he said, voice dropping to that low register that seemed to vibrate in my chest. "You tell me the rest when you're ready. I'm not going anywhere."
"Okay," I whispered.
"Tell me something. How long were you sitting here alone before I got here?"
"Since the kids went to bed. Around eight."
"That's almost two hours, Maliyah." His voice cracked slightly on my name. "You've been sitting here scared for two hours and you weren't going to tell me."
"You said you wanted to talk about something important. About you. I didn't want to—"
"No." He cut me off, he reached forward, hands gently framing my face, making me look at him. "No. This IS important. You are important. This bastard shows up and scares you—you call me."
"I was going to tell you. I just—" My voice broke. "I don’t know."
"Maliyah." Reed's thumb brushed across my cheekbone, catching a tear I hadn't realized had fallen. "Your shit is my shit now. That's what this is. That's what I came here to tell you tonight."
"What?"
"That I'm all in. That I want this—want you, want Lucas and Zoe, want Saturday mornings and weeknight dinners and all of it." He leaned his forehead against mine. "And that means when something scares you, you tell me."
I closed my eyes, letting myself lean into him for just a moment. Then I pulled back.
"I need you to understand something," I said. "I appreciate that you want to protect me. I do. But I can't have you going into cop mode and trying to control this."
His expression shifted—not quite defensive, but close. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're already thinking about running his name. Checking for warrants, complaints, anything you can use. Maybe bringing him in for questioning."
Reed didn't deny it.
"And I need you to not do that. Not yet."
"Maliyah—"
"I'm serious, Reed. This is exactly the kind of thing that escalates situations like this. If you go after him officially, he'll know I told you. He'll know I'm scared. And men like Bryce don't respond well to shows of force. They escalate."
Reed stood up, running both hands through his hair. "So what? I'm supposed to do nothing? Just let him walk around knowing you’re local now, knowing what your kids look like?"
"He already knows those things. Running his name doesn't change that. It just tells him I'm scared enough to involve the cops."
"You ARE scared enough. You're wearing your gun in your apartment, Maliyah."
"Because I'm being smart and prepared. Not because I'm panicking and making bad decisions." I stood up to face him. "Reed, I know how these situations play out. This is what I deal with every day."
"You get I’m a cop, right? I deal with this shit every day too."
I stared at him. Trying to communicate to him how he was missing the point.
Finally, he caved. "Then tell me what you want me to do."
"I want you to trust my judgment on this. I want you to support me, not take over."
He looked at me for a long moment, and I could see him fighting against every instinct he had. "I don't know if I can do that."
The honesty was like a punch to the gut. At least he wasn't lying to me.
"Then we have a problem," I said quietly. "Because I won't be in a relationship where someone makes decisions about my safety without me. I've been there. I won't go back."
"That's not fair. Bryce controlled you. I'm trying to protect you. Those aren't the same thing."
"Reed, if you're making decisions about how to handle this without listening to what I need, then you’re putting pressure on me. Pressure I don’t need right now. You do see where I’m coming from, right?"
Reed stared at me, and I watched the realization hit. His shoulders dropped slightly.
"Fuck," he said quietly. "You're right. I'm—shit. That's not what I want."
"I know it's not. But Reed, your need to protect me doesn't override my need to control my own life. It can't."
He nodded slowly, then moved back to the couch and sat down heavily. "Okay. So tell me. What do you need from me?"
I sat down beside him, close enough that our knees touched. "Right now? I need you to not run his name. Not yet."
"Maliyah—"
"Let me finish. If he contacts me again—any contact at all, whether it's him showing up somewhere he shouldn't be, calling, texting, anything—then yes.
Then we use every resource you have. Then you run his name, check everything, do whatever cop stuff you need to do. But that has to be my call. Not yours."
"What if I run it and find out he has a pattern? What if there are other women who've filed complaints? What if his wife has called the cops on him?"
"Then we'll know that when and if I decide it's time to run it."
Reed was quiet, processing. I could see him working through the logic, the cop part of his brain reluctantly agreeing with the victim advocate part.
"I hate this," he said finally.
"I know."
"I want to find him and make sure he never comes near you again."
"I know that too."
"But you're asking me to trust that you know how to handle this."
"I'm asking you to trust that I know MY abuser. That I've been on this side of it and I know what helps and what makes it worse." I took his hand. "I'm not saying you don't get a say. I'm saying I need final say on my own safety."
Reed looked down at our joined hands, his thumb brushing across my knuckles. "Okay," he said quietly. "We do it your way. For now. But if he escalates—"
"If he escalates, we reassess. Together. As a team."
"As a team," he repeated, like he was testing out the words. Then he looked up at me. "I'm not good at this."
"At what?"
"At not controlling things. At trusting someone else to handle a threat." He let out a breath. "My whole job is about taking control of bad situations. And now you're asking me to sit back and wait."
"I'm not asking you to sit back. I'm asking you to stand beside me. There's a difference."
Something shifted in his expression. "Yeah. Okay. I can try to do that."
We sat there for a moment in silence, both of us trying to figure out how to navigate this.
"I’m glad you texted tonight. I’m glad I got to see you." I said finally.
Reed's expression changed—became more vulnerable, less controlled. "Yeah. I’d wanted to tell you something, but after this, it feels—"
"No. Tell me. Please. I want to know."
He studied my face for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. But first—are you okay? Really?"
I considered lying. Considered saying I was fine. But we were trying to do this differently.
"No," I said honestly. "I'm scared. And I'm angry that I'm scared. And I hate that he still has this power over me after all this time."
"He doesn't have power over you. You took precautions. You armed yourself. You made a plan. That's not him having power. That's you taking it back."
The words landed like a weight being lifted from my chest. "What did you want to tell me?" I asked, suddenly desperate for whatever he had to say—anything to pull me out of the swirling vortex of my own thoughts, even if just for a few minutes.
"Okay. Yeah." Reed's jaw tightened. He looked down, then back up at me. "I want to tell you about my dad. Need to tell you some of it—might help explain some shit about me."