Chapter 2 - The Safehouse
We didn't go to Dad’s house in the suburbs. He knew David would immediately send his sleazy lawyer or his enabling parents there the second he made bail. Instead, we drove two hours north into the rugged, pine-covered foothills of the Cascades.
Dad owned a cabin out here. It was completely off the grid—solar panels, well water, and a security perimeter that would make Fort Knox jealous. It was his sanctuary, a place he bought with his Army pension when the noise of the city triggered his PTSD. Tonight, it was my fortress.
When we pulled into the dirt driveway, the motion sensors illuminated the clearing. Dad helped me out of the truck and carried my duffel bag inside. The cabin was warm, smelling of cedar and woodsmoke.
“Sit on the couch,” he instructed, walking straight to the kitchen. He returned a minute later with an ice pack wrapped in a towel and a mug of chamomile tea. He gently placed the ice on my bruised shoulder.
I winced, the adrenaline finally leaving my system, replaced by a hollow, aching exhaustion. The tears I had held back all night finally spilled over. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so sorry. I thought I could fix him. I thought it was my fault.”
Dad sat down on the coffee table across from me, his elbows resting on his knees. His brown eyes were heavy with a mix of sorrow and quiet rage. “Listen to me, Sarah. You never apologize for surviving. And you never take the blame for a weak man’s violence. David is a coward. Cowards break things they can’t control.”
“How did you know?” I sobbed, clutching the mug. “How did you know it was getting bad? I never told you.”
Dad offered a sad, knowing smile. “I spent twenty years reading enemy combatants in hostile territory. You think I couldn't read the man who was supposed to protect my daughter? I saw the way you flinched when he raised his voice. I saw the way he isolated you, checking the time whenever we had lunch. I’ve been building a file on him for six months.”
My head snapped up. “A file?”
May you like
Dad stood up and walked over to a heavy iron safe in the corner of the room. He spun the dial, pulled open the door, and extracted a thick manila folder. He tossed it onto the coffee table in front of me.
“David didn't just lose a client today,” Dad said grimly. “He was fired for embezzlement. And he’s hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt. Your husband has been living a double life, Sarah. And we’re going to burn it to the ground.”
