There was no cold hiding in the corners of the house anymore.

The heavy iron padlock and its broken shackle were long gone, locked up in Officer Vance’s evidence locker down at the station.

Jaclyn had finished her court-ordered probation and community service hours far from our street.

The five-year protective order signed by the county judge was tucked safely in my legal binder in the desk drawer.

Clay had cleared the last of her things out months before, leaving nothing behind in the closets or drawers.

The house was ours again, quiet and steady from the front porch to the back garden fence.