Sienna accepted it.
Then she did what she had learned to do long before success made people kind.
She documented.
She saved the recording twice.
She photographed the thrown folder on the gravel.
She wrote down the time.
12:14 p.m.
She wrote down the names of the witnesses who were willing to be named.
She forwarded the file to the attorney.
She called the nonemergency line and made a report because a threat was still a threat even when it came from someone who shared your last name.
Her parents did not call that night.
Garrett did.
Six times.
She did not answer.
At 9:38 p.m., he texted.
You destroyed me.
Sienna stared at the message from the farmhouse kitchen, where the repaired window now held the last pink of evening light.
The same kitchen where she had once eaten canned soup in gloves because the heat was out.
The same kitchen where she had sorted seed packets with Natalie and cried over bills.
The same kitchen where she had taped her first paid order to the wall like proof that she existed.
She typed three words.
