I looked down at the towel in my lap.

For three years, every argument had ended with me planning how to keep tomorrow running smoothly: how to soothe Spencer, how to reassure his mother, how to pretend nothing strange had happened.

That night, I could plan something different.

A safe place to sleep.

A phone call to the bank.

A conversation with my lawyer.

I asked Officer Davis to repeat the name of the victim-support organization.

This time I wrote it down.