Chapter 4 - The Knock on the Door
Saturday afternoon arrived with a gray, heavy sky that threatened rain. Mark kissed my temple right around 2:00 PM, announcing that he needed to run down to the local hardware store to pick up a replacement valve for our upstairs guest bathroom sink.
"Won't be more than forty-five minutes, babe," he promised, sliding his jacket on and flashing that familiar, handsome grin that used to make my chest ache with affection.
"Take your time," I said from the kitchen counter, where I was organizing bills. "Leo is watching cartoons in the den. We're in no rush."
The front door clicked shut, and the heavy rumble of his SUV fading down the driveway was the only sound in the house. I let out a long, slow breath, feeling the quiet tension settle into my bones. I had spent the last three days mapping out my next move, consulting mentally with the legal realities of messy divorces, asset protection, and child custody. I knew I needed hard evidence—something indisputable, something that would leave him utterly defenseless in a courtroom.
Twenty minutes later, the front doorbell rang.
It wasn't a sharp, demanding ring, but a hesitant, nervous chime that echoed softly through the hallway. I frowned, glancing at the clock. Mark had only been gone for twenty minutes; he couldn't possibly be back already unless he'd forgotten his wallet.
Wiping my hands on a dish towel, I walked down the short corridor and pulled the heavy oak door open.
Standing on my front porch, shivering slightly in the brisk autumn wind, was the young woman from the bakery.
She looked entirely different up close. Stripped of the protective hum of the grocery store aisles, she looked impossibly young—scarcely out of college, her pale cheeks flushed pink from the cold, and her dark brown eyes swimming with an erratic, desperate panic. Her hands were clenched tightly into fists inside the pockets of her oversized cream sweater.
For a second, neither of us spoke. The wind rustled the dead oak leaves in our front yard, filling the heavy silence between us.
"Can we talk?" she finally whispered, her voice cracking right down the middle.
May you like
I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms over my chest. I didn't invite her in. I didn't offer her a seat. I just looked at her with a cold, professional detachment—the same look I gave interns who tried to cut corners in the trauma unit.
"You're standing on my front porch," I replied evenly. "You might as well start talking."
