Chapter 9
“Elena.”
“There are police outside.”
“Don’t open the door.”
“I don’t know what to —”
“Listen to me. Tell them you’re contacting your attorney and that you’ll come to the station with legal representation within the hour.”
“I don’t have an attorney.”
“You do now. Rebecca Ortiz. Best divorce lawyer in Illinois. She’s fifteen minutes away.” A beat. “Room number 214.”
“How did you —”
“Because I started making calls the second I left that café last night. Give me some credit, Elena. I don’t make offers I can’t back up.”
Something in his voice — the flat, absolute certainty of it — made her breathe easier.
“What do I do?”
“Exactly what I said. Tell them you’re contacting your attorney. Don’t let them in. Don’t explain. Don’t apologize.” His voice was calm and level. “You are not the one who did something wrong. Say it back to me.”
“I’m not the one who did something wrong.”
“Again. Like you mean it.”
“I’m not the one who did something wrong.”
“Good. Rebecca will be there in twelve minutes. Stay calm.”
The line went dead.
Elena walked back to the door. The knocking had stopped; there was a low murmur of voices on the other side. She stood close enough to smell the paint and said, through the wood, in a voice that surprised her:
“I’m contacting my attorney. I’ll come to the station with legal representation within the hour.”
Silence. Then, through the door: “Ma’am, your husband just wants to make sure you’re safe.”
“I’m safer now than I’ve been in twelve years.” Her hand was flat on the door. “Tell him that.”
Twelve minutes later, a different knock — controlled, professional, two quick raps.
“Mrs. Martinez. Rebecca Ortiz. Dominic sent me.”
Elena opened the door.
The woman on the other side was in her fifties, silver hair pulled back tight, in a sharp gray suit, with eyes that catalogued Elena top to bottom in about two seconds and gave nothing away.
“The police are downstairs,” Rebecca said. “So is your husband.”
Elena’s hand went to the doorframe.
“We’re going down together. You’re going to verify that you’re safe and that you left voluntarily. You will not elaborate. You will not explain. You will not apologize.” She paused. “Am I clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Good.” Rebecca lifted a garment bag she’d been holding at her side. “Also, I brought you real clothes. You cannot face them looking like you slept in someone else’s jacket — it feeds his narrative.”