Chapter 3

Back home, I went straight to the study. On the bottom shelf were four years' worth of neatly organized rehab materials. Vocal exercise charts. Sign language notes. Doctor's recommendations. And the cards I'd made by hand.

I knelt down and started putting them all into trash bags, one by one.

Michael rushed in soon after. He grabbed my wrist, his eyes panicked. The whiteboard shook in his hand. "Why are you throwing these away?" he wrote.

I pulled my hand back and kept gathering.

He stood in front of me, blocking my way. He wrote another line. "Aren't these your most treasured things?"

Yeah, I had treasured them more than anything.

After every session, I'd write down exactly what happened. He made a vocal sound today. He lasted twenty minutes today. His mood wasn't great today, so I'll be gentle tomorrow.

I treated every small step of his progress like a gift. But when I opened the gift, all I found inside was lies.

Michael crouched down, pressing his hand on the trash bag. His eyes were red. He wrote, "Are you giving up on me?"

I stared at those words, my chest feeling tight.

'Who gave up on whom?' I thought.

He spent four years of silence making me believe I was still helping him through the darkness. He erased all my efforts with one "she's too loud." And now he was accusing me of giving up?

I didn't argue. I couldn't. The pain in my throat reminded me that silence was his last lesson to me. I put the last diary into the bag.

Michael's hand froze.

The cover of that diary was worn out. On the first page was written, "Today is the first day of Michael's rehab. He's really upset. But I believe he'll get better."

Tucked inside was a photo. He was sitting in the rehab room, eyes downcast. I was beside him, holding up a card, my eyes full of hope.

He pulled the photo out, his thumb brushing over my face.

I didn't look at it again. I turned and walked to the bedroom.

That night, I slept fitfully.

I woke up in the middle of the night. His side of the bed was empty.

The tablet on the nightstand was lit up. Michael had forgotten to log out of his messaging app. The pinned chat was with Sophie.

I didn't want to look. But a new voice message notification flashed on the screen. The latest one was sent ten minutes ago. I tapped it.

Michael's voice came through the tablet speaker. "Sophie, is your headache acting up again? Don't stay up. Let me read you a couple of pages from a book, then you go to sleep."

Then came a soft, gentle reading, slow and careful, every word laced with tenderness.

My finger froze on the screen. A wave of cold numbness washed over me. I scrolled up and saw row after row of voice messages.

"Good morning." "It's cold today, don't forget your scarf." "I passed by that cake shop you like. I'll get you some tomorrow." "I watched that movie you mentioned. The ending isn't great, but I think you'd still like it."

So he did like sharing little things. The weather, food, movies, the night. He just never wanted to share them with me.

I listened to them all, tears falling onto the screen. By the end, I wasn't even angry anymore. All that was left was a late, sobering realization.

I turned off the tablet and opened the drawer. Inside was the divorce agreement I'd printed out earlier that day.

I thought I might hesitate. But my hand was steady as the pen came down.

After I wrote "Claire Winters," I let out a soft sigh. Four years of marriage. Finally, I'd ended it myself.

At 1:20 AM, I heard noises from the front door. At first, I thought it was Michael coming back. But the sound was wrong. It was frantic. Someone was trying the keypad.

I went to the door and looked through the peephole. Three men in low caps were standing there. One of them was using a tool to try and pry the lock open.

The blood rushed to my head. Cold sweat soaked my back instantly. My throat injury wouldn't let me speak, only make raspy, broken sounds.

My first instinct was to text Michael. [Someone's trying to break in outside. Can you please send a voice message? Just say you're home. Please.]

He replied quickly. [Claire, don't joke around. You know I can't talk.]

Then he sent me three links to TikTok videos titled "Girl Living Alone Self-Defense Audio—Boyfriend Voice," "Play This When a Stranger Knocks," and "Deep Male Voice to Scare Off Intruders."

I stared at the screen, my fingers going cold. He could talk. All he needed was one sentence. "Who's there? I've already called the cops." But he wouldn't do it.

The prying at the door grew more urgent. I bit my lip, opened one of the videos, and cranked the volume to max. A synthesized, rough male voice blared from my phone, "Who is it out there at this hour? What do you want?"

There was a moment of silence outside. Then someone cursed under their breath. "Fake. It's a TikTok audio." The prying started up again.

My legs gave out. I couldn't stand. I dialed 911, stumbling backward into the bedroom and locking the door.

The dispatcher told me to stay quiet. Officers were on their way.

I huddled in the corner by the closet, listening to the lock on the front door loosen, click by terrifying click. Each sound jolted my nerves.

I remembered the words Michael wrote all those years ago. "I will protect you." That note was still tucked away in my photo album. But the person protecting me now was the calm voice on the 911 call. Not my husband.

A few minutes later, police sirens blared below. The intruders scrambled away. When the officers entered, I was shaking too badly to stand.

A female officer helped me up, her voice gentle. "It's okay now. Is your husband home?"

I shook my head.

She frowned. "You should have him come back to be with you."

I typed on my phone. "I don't have a husband."

The tablet on the nightstand lit up. Michael had messaged Sophie. [She's testing me again. She said someone was breaking in and wanted me to send a voice message. Can you believe she'd make up something like that?]

Sophie replied a few minutes later. [Maybe it was real?]

Another short while later, Michael sent a voice message to Sophie. "She's getting more and more sensitive. I'm so tired. Tomorrow's our anniversary. I'll tell her I can talk then. Consider it a surprise."

A surprise. I stared at those two words, a wave of nausea rolling in my stomach. Michael, there would be no tomorrow for us.