The first photograph showed the dark purple bruise blooming across my left cheekbone where Mark had struck me sixteen hours earlier.

The second showed the broken window latch in my guest room, with the quarter-inch gap clearly visible where the wooden frame met the cold stone sill.

The third was a certified copy of the forty-two-dollar pharmacy receipt showing I had paid cash for my inhaler after Mark let my secondary health insurance lapse for nonpayment.

The fourth showed the application for involuntary commitment and legal guardianship that Mark had hidden in his desk drawer, complete with his draft signature at the bottom of the second page.

Mark picked up the photograph of my bruised face, his thumb hovering over the dark mark on my skin, his face turning the dull gray of wet salt.