Jason’s flight was scheduled out of Charlotte the following evening. He had to come back to the house to get his passport, which he had stupidly left in his home office desk, likely assuming I would be too busy drowning in newborn chaos to notice him slipping in and out.
I was discharged from the hospital the morning of his flight.

I didn’t go home. I took Noah to Sarah’s house, where we were safe and surrounded by family.

At 2:00 PM, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Jason.
Hey. Service is bad up here. Heading home soon. Hope you calmed down.
I stared at the screen, a cold smile touching my lips. He was playing the part right up to the end. I didn’t reply.

At 4:30 PM, Jason pulled into our driveway. According to the police report, he walked into the house, completely ignoring the massive, dried bloodstain in the nursery that he walked right past. He went straight to his office for his passport, then to his closet to retrieve his safe.
He found the safe completely empty.

Before he could even process what had happened, the front doorbell rang. It wasn’t me. It was two police officers, accompanied by my lawyer. They were there to serve him with an emergency restraining order, emergency full custody papers for Noah, and to ask him some very pointed questions about the forged signatures on the bank transfers.

When Jason realized his passports, his tickets, and his burner phone were in the possession of my attorney, his entire facade crumbled. The arrogant man who told me to stop whining while I bled out on the floor was suddenly stuttering, crying, and begging the officers for a chance to call me. He claimed it was a misunderstanding. He claimed the money was for a “surprise investment.”
I didn’t answer his calls. I never spoke to him again without a lawyer present.