“Sign it now, and I’ll file it with the on-call magistrate tonight,” Marcus said.

I took the blue pen off Detective Mitchell’s desk.

The ink ran dark and smooth across the legal paper, my signature staying neatly inside the printed box.

Marcus took the paper back, checked the date beside my signature, and slipped the signed petition for the protective order into a yellow folder.

He shut his briefcase with two sharp metallic clicks and reached across the desk to shake my hand.

By five o’clock I was back on my front porch, carrying the mail up the wooden steps while Emma sat on the swing with Barnaby in her lap.