Episode Thirteen:His Word Against Mine
961 Words
We stared at the photo for a long time.
Jace sat on the edge of the bed, holding the polaroid in both hands, eyes locked on the grainy image of our sleeping bodies—peaceful, intimate, unaware.
I stood near the window, still gripping the court letter. But I couldn’t focus on the paper anymore.
Someone had been inside. Not just in the building. Inside our home. While we slept. Close enough to take a picture.
A memory I thought I could forget came rushing back: the scratches on the apartment door. The silence that followed. The illusion of safety we’d built since the last move.
Gone.
Burned like the studio.
“I don’t remember hearing anything,” Jace said, voice low. Detached. “I didn’t wake up.”
“Me neither,” I said.
He turned the photo over.
Nothing written.
Just the image. The implication. The threat.
“I shouldn’t have posted again,” he muttered. “I made it worse.”
“No,” I said quickly. “You made it visible. You told the truth. He chose to turn it into this.”
He didn’t argue.
But I could see it—the doubt creeping in again. The self-blame. The guilt that wasn’t his to carry.
The next hour passed in a blur.
We called the lawyer. She advised us to call the police and file another report. She would file an emergency injunction based on the break-in and photographic evidence.
We followed her advice.
The officer who arrived was younger than expected. Polite. Serious. For once, someone who didn’t minimize what was happening.
He collected the photo, filed a report, and offered to notify a detective in the stalking unit.
“You have enough here for escalation,” he said. “You’re not being paranoid.”
When he left, we locked every window. Every door. Double-checked the fire escape.
Still, the fear stayed.
It sat in the corners of the room. On the edge of the bed. In the silence between heartbeats.
That night, we barely slept.
Jace curled into my side, his fingers curled into my shirt like he was anchoring himself. I ran my hand slowly down his spine, again and again, until the tension in his body finally softened.
Somewhere past midnight, I whispered, “We’re going to end this.”
His breath caught.
“How?”
I turned my head toward him. “By showing up. In court. In truth. With each other.”
The next morning, we met with the legal team in person.
The countersuit was real.
Lucas had filed a claim for defamation, “malicious interference,” and emotional distress.
But our side had grown stronger.
The video. The messages. The witness statements. The article. The cease-and-desist. And now, the stalking reports and the polaroid—each one forming a pattern even Lucas couldn’t bury with charm.
Our attorney laid it out clearly.
“He’s banking on you backing down,” she said. “Don’t give him what he wants. If we go forward, we have a strong case. And public support is on your side.”
Jace sat quietly through most of the meeting, listening, nodding. But at the end, he asked one question.
“If we go to trial… will I have to testify?”
“Yes,” she said. “Likely in detail.”
His jaw clenched. “Okay.”
“You don’t have to decide today.”
He looked at me.
“I already did.”
For the first time, Jace started writing things down.
Not in captions.
Not in messages.
In a notebook.
A real one. Lined paper. His handwriting messy and unsure.
I found him at the table one night, scribbling paragraphs.
“What are you working on?” I asked.
He didn’t look up. “My truth. So I don’t forget it when someone else tries to rewrite it.”
I moved behind him, slid my arms around his chest, rested my chin on his shoulder.
“I’ll remember it with you,” I said.
He closed the notebook. Covered my hand with his.
We stayed off social media for a while.
The noise had grown too loud.
But word spread anyway.
Support came from survivors. From advocates. From people who saw themselves in his story.
Of course, so did more threats.
Cowardly ones. Hidden behind usernames. All bark, all shadows.
But one night, we opened the door to find a note taped to it.
White paper. Black ink. No signature.
“You won’t make it to court.”
Jace read it.
Tore it in half.
Threw it away.
“I’m still going,” he said.
“Good,” I whispered. “We’ll go together.”
Then the detective called.
“Lucas has hired a firm,” she said. “Private investigators. They’re looking for anything to use against you both. Don’t be surprised if people you know are approached.”
Sure enough, two days later, Claire called.
“I didn’t say anything,” she said. “But someone came to my office. Asking questions.”
My stomach sank. “What kind?”
“About you. Your relationship history. Your sexuality. They asked if you had anger issues. Whether I ever felt unsafe.”
“Jesus.”
“I told them to go to hell,” she said. “Then I filed a report.”
I exhaled. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Just… be careful.”
The night before the first court appearance, Jace found something in the mailbox.
No note. No envelope.
Just one item:
A razor blade.
Taped to a photo of his childhood home.
And written in sharp red ink across the bottom—
“Go ahead. Cut this off. But you’ll never be clean.”
- Writer
