Diane squeezed my hand.
“She’s going to be okay,” she said.
“I know.”
“It’s going to take time.”
“I know that too.”
“But she’s strong.”
I looked toward the hallway, where my daughter was finally, finally sleeping without someone’s hand around her throat.
“Yeah,” I said. “She is.”
We stayed up until almost two in the morning, talking in low voices, planning.
Tomorrow we’d go to the apartment with a police escort and get Emily’s things.
Tomorrow we’d call a locksmith.
Tomorrow we’d call her employer and explain.
Tomorrow we’d start building the life Emily should have had all along.
But tonight, we just sat together in the quiet house, and we let the relief settle in.
Caleb Torres was in custody.
Emily was safe.
And for the first time in seven months, my daughter was sleeping in a house where no one was going to hurt her.
I went to check on her one more time before bed.
She was curled on her side, her face peaceful in sleep.
And tucked under her pillow, I saw the edge of something white.
I pulled it out gently.
It was the note. The one she’d taped to her leg.
Mom, don’t argue. He may be armed.
She’d kept it.
I smoothed it flat and set it on the nightstand.
Evidence.
Proof.
A reminder that she’d been brave enough to ask for help when it mattered most.
I kissed her forehead and whispered, “I’ve got you.”
Then I went to my own room and lay down in the dark.
Sleep didn’t come easy.
Every sound made me tense.
Every shadow looked like him.
But Emily was safe.
And that was enough.
The next morning, I woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of voices in the kitchen.
Thomas was at the stove making eggs.
Diane was on her phone, already calling locksmiths.
And Emily was at the table, wrapped in a blanket, holding a mug in both hands.
She looked up when I came in.
“Morning,” she said softly.
“Morning, baby.”
“I didn’t think I’d sleep.”
“But you did.”
“Yeah.” She took a sip of coffee. “I did.”
I sat down next to her.
“How do you feel?”
She thought about it.
“Tired. Scared. Relieved.” She paused. “Angry.”
“Good.”
