Marissa Cole did not sleep after sending the word.
Safe.
She had added one more line before she pressed send, then deleted it, then typed it again.
Before I speak to anyone, I need to know what protection exists. I know what Michael Erickson can do.
That was the part that made her hand shake. Not the word safe. Not the files on her floor. The name.
Michael Erickson.
She had avoided saying it out loud for years.
The old folder stayed open on the kitchen table until morning. Printed emails were spread beside an unsigned settlement draft. There was a flash drive in a small envelope, two photographs, and a page of notes she had written years ago because her lawyer at the time told her to write everything down while she still remembered dates.
She hated that page the most.
The handwriting looked frightened.
At seven twenty-two, her lawyer called.
Marissa answered on the second ring. She had been sitting beside the phone, pretending she was not waiting.
