I forwarded everything to Ethan and Jenna.
I did it because payroll managers learn early that anything not documented becomes a story someone else gets to rewrite.
A few hours later, the knock came.
Three hard strikes against our front door.
Ethan went to the peephole.
When he turned back, his face had gone flat in a way I had never seen before.
Red and blue lights pulsed across our living room wall.
The hospital discharge folder was still sitting on the side table beside my pill bottles.
“Mallory,” he said quietly. “It’s the police.”
I stood slowly, one hand on the chair.
My legs trembled from weakness and rage.
When Ethan opened the door, two officers stood on our porch under the small American flag he had put up weeks earlier.
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