The instant the officers stepped into the foyer, Grant transformed. It was terrifying to watch—like a snake shedding its skin. His rigid shoulders sagged in defeat.

His voice softened into a pitch of exhausted, heartbroken concern.

He smoothly informed the officers that I had become severely paranoid and combative due to prenatal psychosis. Right on cue, Evelyn scrambled to the kitchen island and produced a thick binder of medical printouts and meticulously forged daily logs, loudly claiming they’d been documenting my mental decline to show my doctor.

For one agonizing second, the two officers looked uncertain. They looked at the decorated, tearful captain, then at the bruised, crying pregnant woman in the bed.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t scream.

I simply reached under my pillow, unlocked my phone, and silently handed it to the closest officer.