Chapter 17 #2
Through the window, I could see the street below—cars parked along the curb, streetlights casting pools of yellow light, shadows between buildings.
Was someone down there? Watching?
Or was I being paranoid?
The kettle in the kitchen had gone silent—the water long since boiled and automatically shut off. I'd forgotten about the tea.
"I'll make fresh," Reed said, hanging up. "They're sending a patrol car to do a sweep of the area. They'll check the building, talk to the landlord about security footage if there is any."
"There isn't. My landlord is too cheap for cameras." I looked up at him, feeling the familiar burn behind my eyes—not from fear, but from sheer frustration. "I'm so fucking angry, Reed."
"I know." He crossed to me, pulled me up from the couch and into his arms.
"I'm angry at Bryce. Angry at myself for not seeing what he was back then. Angry at the whole damned world." My voice cracked. "I just want to feel safe in my own home. Is that too much to ask?"
"No. It's not." His arms tightened around me. "And we're going to make sure you are safe. I promise you that."
"You can't promise that."
"Then I'm staying tonight." His tone left no room for argument. "Couch is fine. I just need to be here."
Part of me wanted to protest, to prove I could handle this on my own. But a larger part—the part that was still hearing that knock echo in my mind, still imagining Bryce's smug smile at the restaurant—felt nothing but relief.
"Okay," I whispered. "Thank you."
He turned the kettle back on while I sank back onto the couch. Every sound made me tense now. Every creak of the building settling, every voice in the hallway, every distant siren. My body was on high alert, adrenaline making my hands shake.
Reed brought me tea, sat beside me, and we waited in silence for the patrol car to arrive.
Twenty minutes felt like hours.
When the knock finally came—official, authoritative—Reed checked the peephole before opening the door.
Two uniformed officers stood in the hallway. The shorter one, stocky with dark hair, introduced himself as Officer Santos. His partner, tall and lanky with sandy-blonde hair, was Officer Harrison.
They took our statements—the restaurant encounter, Bryce's veiled threats about my children, the pattern of contact since the farmer's market.
When I mentioned the documented history from fifteen years ago, both officers' expressions hardened.
I pulled up my phone, showed them the password-protected folder with hospital records, police reports, photos I'd kept all these years.
Santos and Harrison exchanged looks as they reviewed the documentation. Three broken ribs, ruptured eardrum requiring surgery, concussion, facial lacerations. The kind of injuries that spoke for themselves.
They suggested filing for a restraining order.
Gave me the information for the victim’s advocate office where I could find someone to help with the application.
Explained the process: gather the evidence, file, prepare for a hearing.
With my history and the recent pattern of contact, they thought I had a solid case.
"And if I get it?" I asked.
Reed's jaw tightened. "Then he has to stay away. No calls, no texts, and he can’t try to get someone else to do it on his behalf either. Can't come near your apartment, the center, or the kids' school. And if he violates it, there are consequences."
Santos nodded. "Document everything between now and the hearing. Times, dates, witnesses. Vary your routine—don't make yourself predictable." He handed Reed his card. "We'll include this address in our patrol routes. Anything else happens, call 911 first, then reach out to me directly."
As I walked them out, Santos turned to Reed, "Take care, Detective. We'll keep an eye out tonight." After they left, Reed locked the door—deadbolt, chain, handle—and joined me in the living room.
"A restraining order," I said quietly. "I’m scared. Do you think that will just piss him off more?"
"I’m not sure we can take the chance to not try." He sat beside me. "I don’t like the intentions this guy might have rolling around in his head."
I looked at him—at this man who'd been here for me, for my kids. Who’d come in and made sure my place was secure, that I felt safe. Who’d helped me talk to the officers without taking control. This man who I knew was already planning to sleep on my shitty couch just to keep watch tonight.
"Reed, you don't have to do all this."
"I know." His voice was soft but firm. "But I want to. I'm going to be right here with you."
His voice was quiet but certain, the kind that made the noise in my head finally still for a moment. His words were comforting. But they also scared me because I was starting to need them too much. Starting to rely on Reed being there, being my protection, being my safe place.
And needing someone meant they could hurt you when they left.
But sitting there in my living room, Reed beside me, I let myself believe—just for tonight—that maybe this time would be different.
That maybe this time, it wasn’t too much to hope for someone to actually stay.