“911, what is your emergency?”
Richard’s face paled through the crack of the door. “Sarah, don’t be a fool—”
“I need the police at 142 Elm Street immediately,” I declared clearly into the phone. “My husband is attempting to break into our home to take a child, and I have evidence of financial extortion, human trafficking, and severe domestic abuse.”
“Sarah!” Richard slammed his palm hard against the wood, but the chain held firm.
“They’ll be here in five minutes,” I said coldly, looking Richard dead in the eye through the gap. “Pack your things, Richard. Because when the police arrive, you’re the one who’s leaving this house. And you’re never coming back.”
Richard stared at me, realizing for the first time in twenty-three years that his absolute control was entirely broken. He took a slow step back, panic finally flickering in his eyes as the distant wail of police sirens began to echo down the neighborhood street.
I turned away from the door, sliding my arm around Ethan’s trembling shoulders, pulling my son and my new daughter close. We were bruised, exhausted, and facing a long road of healing—but for the first time in a year, we were finally safe, and we were home.
