Her mother’s medication.
Her father’s calls.
Court paperwork.
Work at the dairy farm down the road—because life still demanded milk be collected and stalls cleaned and bills be paid, even when your marriage had turned into a lawsuit.
Emily told herself that if she kept her head down, the legal process would do its job. Naomi would file motions. The judge would read the evidence. The no-contact order would hold. Thomas would be forced to accept the consequences.
But Naomi had said something that stuck in Emily’s skull like a splinter:
He’s counting on you being too ashamed to fight.
Emily wasn’t ashamed anymore.
What she was—was terrified of wasting time.
Because time was the one thing Thomas and Emily were both fighting over, for entirely different reasons.
For Emily, time meant her mother’s health. Her father’s chance at parole someday. Her own chance to reclaim a life she hadn’t even had the space to imagine.
For Thomas, time meant a condition. A deadline. A year to produce an heir.
And if he couldn’t force Emily to fulfill that condition, he would find someone else who could.
Emily understood that in the cold, logical part of her mind. But understanding a fact didn’t mean her body stopped reacting to it.
There were days she woke up convinced her phone would be filled with messages—new threats, new filings, new pressure points. Sometimes it was. Sometimes it wasn’t.
When it wasn’t, she felt uneasy anyway.
Calm still felt like a trap.
One afternoon, about three weeks after the courthouse no-contact order, Emily was at the co-op buying feed supplements and cheap vitamins for her mother. She stood in line behind a man in a camouflage hat and a teenage girl scrolling on her phone. The fluorescent lights flickered slightly, and the air smelled like fertilizer and dust.
Emily’s phone buzzed.
She flinched automatically, then hated herself for it.
She glanced down.
A message from an unknown number:
He’s doing it again.
Emily’s stomach tightened.
She stared at the screen, thumb hovering. She didn’t respond immediately. She didn’t want to invite a scam. She didn’t want to feed paranoia.
Then another message came, same number:
Thomas Caldwell. He’s telling people he’s dying.
Emily’s breath caught.
The line moved forward; the cashier greeted the man in the camouflage hat. Emily barely heard. Her pulse thumped hard, loud in her ears.
She typed with shaking fingers:
Who is this?
The reply came quickly:
Hannah Miller. We went to high school together. I saw your name in court records online. I’m sorry. I didn’t believe the rumors until I heard him say it.
Emily swallowed. Court records. Of course. Small counties loved public records. Even when they didn’t gossip openly, they watched.
Emily typed:
What did you hear?
There was a pause, then:
He’s at St. Luke’s fundraiser next month. He’s been telling everyone he’s terminal and wants to “do something meaningful” before he dies. He’s been asking about young women. Like… specifically. I thought you should know.
Emily’s hands went cold.
St. Luke’s fundraiser was a big deal in Madison—doctors, donors, local business owners. A place Thomas could present himself as tragic and noble and generous. A place he could recruit.
Emily forced herself to breathe.
She typed:
How do you know him?
Hannah replied:
My cousin works catering. She said he’s been making comments—“I just want a family before I’m gone.” People eat it up. They say he’s brave. They say he deserves love. It made my skin crawl.
Emily swallowed hard. Her throat felt tight, like she was about to be sick.
She paid for her items without remembering the total and walked out of the co-op into cold air that burned her lungs.
In her car, she sat gripping the steering wheel and stared at the windshield.
He’s doing it again.
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