The man tried to stand, but I was already calling the police.
By the time they arrived, I had restrained him with help from a few passersby—bless them—and my hands were trembling.
Not from fear anymore. From rage. From helplessness. From the betrayal that had been festering inside me since I began suspecting Alec was behind it all.
Of course it was Alec again. They took him in, cuffed and defiant.
But the surveillance camera, the one facing the playground gate—had mysteriously been broken. Smashed, as if someone knew it would be the only visual proof.
That night, my home was too quiet despite the kids already asleep. I sat in the dark with a cup of green tea gone cold, trying to make sense of everything.
Then the call came. He died. Three hours after being placed in the holding cell,
