Chapter 13
He was waiting by the stairwell when I came back from the county clerk's office. I saw his car first, parked crooked by the sidewalk in front of my apartment building, half up on the curb like he'd pulled in fast. The engine was still ticking as it cooled. Then I saw him leaning against the brick, hands in his pockets, that same dark suit jacket from the helicopter even though the day had turned warm.
My bag felt heavy against my shoulder. The certified copies were inside it, stamped and sealed. My other hand went to my belly without thinking. It did that now whenever he was near.
He pushed off the wall when he saw me. "Olivia."
I didn't stop walking. The front walk was only about twenty feet, concrete cracked from winter, a security camera mounted above the entry door blinking red. Mrs. Jensen from 2B was taking her trash to the bin by the parking lot. She saw us and slowed.
Richard stepped into my path. He didn't raise his voice. He smiled the way he did when he wanted someone else to think everything was fine.
"We need to talk," he said. "Alone. Inside."
"I don't think that's a good idea," I said.
His smile thinned. He reached out and took my wrist. The same grip. Fingers wrapping tight around the bone, thumb pressing hard into the inside. My hand stayed on my belly. I didn't pull. I let my bag strap slide down my arm a little so the weight shifted.
"You've made your point," he said quietly, so Mrs. Jensen wouldn't hear. "You went to the clerk. You got your stamps. But this is still ours to fix before the hearing. You sign the revocation I had prepared and we tell the judge it was a misunderstanding."
I could feel his fingers tightening. The wind from yesterday was gone but I could still hear it somehow, the sound of the open door and the ocean below. My breath caught and I made myself breathe again, slow.
"No," I said.
His jaw tightened. He glanced toward the camera above the door, then back at me, and his other hand came up toward my face the way it had in the helicopter. Not a slap. A control thing. Fingers along my jaw, thumb near the corner of my mouth, tilting my head so I'd have to look at him. The pressure was light enough to deny later and hard enough that I couldn't turn away without a struggle.
"Listen to me," he said. "You're not thinking about what happens if you don't. That trust doesn't protect you if you disappear. It only matters if you're around to use it."
I kept my hand on my belly. I didn't push his hand off my jaw. I looked past his shoulder, straight into the camera lens. The red light was still blinking.
"My name is Olivia," I said, clear and even, loud enough that Mrs. Jensen stopped completely and the microphone on that camera would catch it. "It's two thirty on Wednesday. I'm standing outside my apartment at 412 Elm. My husband Richard is holding my wrist and my jaw. I told him no. The amendment I signed three months ago stands. I will not revoke it. I made the change so that if anything happens to me or the baby, everything goes directly to the trust for our child and he receives nothing."
Richard's fingers flexed against my jaw. His eyes flicked up to the camera and he realized what I was doing.
"Let go of me," I said, still looking at the camera, not at him. "You're being recorded."
He didn't let go right away. For two seconds he held tighter, as if deciding whether to make me pay for saying it out loud. I could feel his thumb trembling slightly, and I could hear my own breathing again, shallow but steady.
Mrs. Jensen called out, "Everything alright there, honey?"
That broke it. He dropped both hands at once, stepped back and put his palms up like he'd been the one being reasonable.
"We're fine," he said to her, with that charm he used in the foundation tower lobby. "Just a private disagreement."
Mrs. Jensen didn't move. She held her phone out where we could see it. "I'm recording too, sir. You should step away from her."
Richard looked at me then, truly looked, and I saw something cold settle in. He wasn't going to grab me again with two witnesses and two cameras on him.
He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a folded paper. He held it out. A revocation form, already notarized, just needing my signature.
"Last chance to make this easy," he said.
"I changed everything three months ago," I said. "What is that paper? It's nothing unless I sign it. I won't."
He stared at the paper, then crumpled it in his fist and shoved it back in his pocket. He turned without another word, walked to his car, and got in. He didn't peel out. He drove away slow, careful, like a man who knew he'd just been caught on tape doing the exact thing he'd done in the air.
I stayed where I was, hand on my belly, and felt the baby move once, hard against my palm. My wrist ached where he'd held it.
Mrs. Jensen came over and touched my elbow gently. "You want me to call the sheriff? I got it all."
May you like
I nodded. "Yes," I said. "And can you send me that video?"
Above us, the red light kept blinking.
