Page 57

I nod. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s do that.”

Palmer finishes logging the last note from my report, her fingers tapping on the keyboard as the low hum of the station fills the space between us.

I could leave now. I’ve done what I came to do. But still, I sit there, my hands curled tight in my lap, the words pressing against the back of my teeth.

I shift in my seat. “There’s something else.”

Palmer looks up, her gaze steady. “Of course.”

I wet my lips, nerves buzzing just beneath my skin.

“We own the house together. David and I. We're not married, but both our names are on the mortgage.” My voice tightens around the words. “When I left, I took Mia. We’ve been staying with my friend. But we can’t stay there forever.

I want to go home. But I don’t know if I can. ”

Palmer sets down her pen, giving me her full attention. “You have every right to return,” she says. “If your name is on the mortgage, he can’t prevent you. And unless there’s a court order barring access, which there isn’t, you’re entitled to be there.”

I nod slowly, but it doesn’t loosen the knot twisting tighter in my chest.

“But he has the same rights,” I murmur. “Doesn’t he?”

Her pause is small but telling. “Yes,” she says. “He does. You’re both co-owners.”

I press my hands harder into my thighs to keep them from shaking. “So if I move back in... and he shows up?”

“You can ask him not to,” she says. “And if he refuses, or if he causes any kind of disturbance, you document everything. If you feel unsafe, you call us. That would constitute a breach of the peace.”

“But that’s only if it gets worse,” I whisper. “Only after he’s already there.”

Palmer’s mouth presses into a thin line. “I know it’s not enough. I know it feels like you’re being asked to carry all the risk. But you’re not powerless, Ellie.”

I lift my head, and she leans forward, her voice low but steady.

“What I suggest is this. You get a message to him in writing. Calm, clear, and factual. Tell him you intend to return to the house. That you’ve spoken to the police.

That you do not want him to return, given the circumstances. Make it official.”

I hesitate, the thought of reaching out to him turning my stomach. “And if he ignores it?”

“Then you’ve built your foundation,” she says. “Every message. Every ignored boundary. Every incident. You’re creating a record. You’re making it harder for him to pretend this is something it’s not.”

I sit there a moment longer, absorbing her words. The heaviness in my chest hasn’t gone. But beneath it, there’s a flicker of something else. Resolve.

I nod. “Okay,” I say quietly.

Palmer offers a small, tired smile. “One step at a time.”

The station doors hiss shut behind me, and I step out into the grey afternoon. The air is sharp and damp. It's stopped raining now, but the air still carries that metallic bite. I pull my jacket around myself and pause for a second at the top of the steps, my breath misting in front of me.

For a moment, I just stand there. Letting the sounds of the town wrap around me. Car tyres hissing on wet tarmac, the distant rumble of a bus, a child’s laugh from somewhere unseen. The world feels both too big and too small all at once. Like I could disappear into it if I’m not careful.

I reach into my bag, my fingers brushing the folded leaflet Palmer gave me. The resources, the numbers, the small practicalities of safety printed in neat bullet points. The paperwork tucked beneath it. Proof that today wasn’t all in my head. Proof that I was seen.

It doesn’t fix everything. But it’s something. It’s a beginning.

I square my shoulders against the chill and head toward the car, my boots splashing through shallow puddles along the kerb. The key fob is cold in my hand as I unlock the door and slide into the driver’s seat—the familiar smell of the heater kicking in as I turn the engine on.

I sit for a minute, my hands resting on the steering wheel, the silence pressing in close. My heart’s still thudding, but it’s not panic anymore. It's the leftover adrenaline of having stood my ground.

I went. I spoke. I didn’t let myself back down.

The clouds above are still thick when I pull away from the kerb, but the sun is trying to break through.

Soft light nudging through in pale streaks, turning puddles into scattered reflections of gold and grey.

I drive through town with the radio low, more static than song, a quiet hum beneath the gentle swish of tyres on wet roads.

The streets blur past, familiar, but off-kilter.

Like I’m seeing them through someone else’s memory.

By the time I reach Naomi’s flat, my body feels like it’s been hollowed out and refilled with something sharp and unfamiliar. Not fear. Not even anger. Just certainty.

I park outside, kill the engine, and gather my things. My bag, the paperwork tucked inside, my keys clutched tight in my palm. Each small movement feels deliberate. Like laying down stepping stones across a river.

I climb the stairs, one hand trailing the worn railing, the other still gripping my keys like a tether. When I reach the landing, I pause for a moment outside the door to the flat. The lights inside glow through the frosted glass. Home. At least for now.

I take a breath, unlocking the door and pushing it open with my shoulder.

Naomi doesn’t even blink when I walk in. She’s curled on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, a half-finished glass of wine perched on the armrest beside her. She lifts an eyebrow in greeting, then holds up the bottle with a silent offer.

I nod. A small, tired smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

Without a word, I shrug off my jacket, kick off my boots, and cross the room to sink into the sofa beside her. She pours without asking, passing me the glass with a nudge to my arm.

I take it, the first sip warming a place in me I hadn’t realised had gone cold.

We sit there for a minute, the TV buzzing in the background, the rain tapping against the windows.

“You went?” Naomi says, her voice low.

I nod again, feeling the truth of it settle heavier in my bones now that I'm back here. “Yeah.”

She doesn’t push. Just waits.

So, I tell her. About Palmer. About the report. About the plan. About how the law feels like it's balanced on a knife’s edge, but at least now there's something written with my name on it. Some small protection carved out of the noise.

When I finish, Naomi sets her glass down with a soft clink. “You did good, Carter,” she says, squeezing my knee.

And even though it shouldn’t make me cry, even though it’s just one simple thing. Somehow, it does.

Because I did. I did something good today. I did something for myself.

We stay like that for a while. No rush. No pressure. Just two glasses of wine, the buzz of the TV, and the quiet hum of the rain thickening outside.

Naomi shifts, stretching her legs out and nudging me with her foot. “You know what you have to do next, right?”

I already know. I’ve known since I left the station. But the thought of it makes my stomach knot. “Yeah,” I murmur. “I have to tell him.”

Naomi sits up a little straighter, pulling a battered notebook from under the coffee table. “Right. We’re doing this. No emotional essays. No loopholes. Just facts.”

I laugh under my breath—more of a huff—but it still cracks something lighter into the room. I tug the blanket tighter around my shoulders, balancing the glass on my knee.

Naomi flips open the notebook to a clean page, pen poised like she’s about to cross-examine me. “Alright. Start with the basics. What do you want him to know? Without giving him any room to twist it?”

I think for a second, then say, “That I’m going back to the house. That I want him gone. That I’ve spoken to the police.”

Naomi scribbles, muttering under her breath. “Good. Firm. Now add a timeline. Otherwise he’ll drag it out forever.”

“Seven days?” I offer.

“Perfect.” She underlines it twice. “Anything else?”

I hesitate. Then shake my head. “No threats. No emotional bait.”

“Exactly.” She jots a few more words, then hands the notebook over to me. “Here. Read it.”

I tuck my glass aside and take the notebook, my fingers brushing the rough edge of the paper. Naomi’s handwriting is strong. Certain. Like she wrote it knowing I could stand behind it.

The message is brief. Direct. No room for misunderstanding.

David,

Following recent events, I’ve sought legal advice and spoken to the police. I will be returning to the house with Mia. I am asking that you do not return.

Please collect your belongings within the next seven days.

For clarity: this is not a pause or a break. I am ending our relationship.

I do not want further contact unless it relates to the house. If you come to the property uninvited, I will report it.

Ellie.

I read it twice. Then a third time.

It’s not cruel. It’s not cruel because it’s true. And that’s something I’m ready to stand behind.

I reach for my phone, copying it word for word into a message. My thumbs hesitate over the keyboard for a beat, one last flicker of old habit. The urge to soften it. To make it easier for him. To leave a door cracked open.

But no.

I’m done leaving doors open for someone who never once thought about what it cost me to hold them.

I press send.

The message blinks out of existence, absorbed into the ether between us.

Done.

Naomi watches me for a long moment, her face softer now. “How do you feel?”

I breathe out, slow and shaky.

“Terrified,” I admit. “And... lighter.”

“Good,” she says, reaching over to top up my glass like we’re celebrating. “You deserve to feel lighter.”

I take the wine, but I don't drink it yet. I just sit back on the sofa, feeling the exhaustion slip into my bones now that the adrenaline has nowhere left to go.

Out there, somewhere, David will read that message. Maybe he’ll ignore it. Maybe he’ll rage. Maybe he’ll do nothing at all.

But here, in this moment, I’m safe. I’m heard. I’m not alone.

I tuck the blanket higher, let my head tip sideways until it rests against Naomi’s shoulder. She doesn’t flinch or shift away. She just leans into me too, warm, solid and steady, as the storm outside thickens into proper rain.

I exhale, letting it all settle. Then I close my eyes, just for a moment, and let myself rest.

I don’t have to carry it all tonight.

Tomorrow will come.

And I’ll be ready.