Chapter 4 - The Lockout
By the time Mark returned to our house to grab a change of clothes before heading to the hospital, his key didn't work.
I had paid a locksmith triple his standard emergency rate to change every deadbolt, reprogram the garage doors, and install a brand-new, high-end security system with cameras covering every inch of the property.
I watched him from my phone via the doorbell camera. He jiggled the handle, frowned, and then hit the doorbell button.
I spoke through the two-way audio. "You don't live here anymore, Mark."
"Rachel, what is this?" he yelled, looking directly into the camera lens. "I just need a change of clothes to go see Noah! Why are you doing this? I couldn't just leave my mother in a concrete cell, she's seventy years old!"
"And Noah is eight," I replied, my voice echoing coldly out onto the porch. "She nearly murdered him to prove a point about manners. And you chose her comfort over your son's safety."
"It was a mistake!" Mark pleaded, tears in his eyes. "She's horrified, Rachel. She's sobbing at her house. She wants to apologize to Noah."
"She will not come within five hundred feet of Noah, and neither will you until a judge tells me otherwise. An emergency restraining order was granted an hour ago. You'll be served by a deputy this afternoon."
"You can't take my son away from me! I didn't do anything!"
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"That is exactly the problem, Mark. You never do anything. Goodbye."
I cut the feed. Noah was sleeping peacefully in his hospital bed. I had hired off-duty police officers to stand outside his ICU door. No one was getting to him without my explicit permission. The war had officially started.
