Chapter 3
The next morning, Garrett left for work at seven.
He kissed my forehead. Told me to rest. Said his assistant would bring me lunch.
The moment his car pulled out of the driveway, I was moving.
I went to his office. The door was locked, but I knew where he hid the key—behind the copy of The Art of the Deal on his bookshelf. I'd seen him use it a hundred times.
The office smelled like him. Expensive cologne and ambition.
I went straight to the filing cabinet. Also locked. But I knew that combination too—our anniversary date. He'd never changed it. He never thought I'd dare.
I opened the top drawer.
And stared.
Files. Dozens of them. Labeled with project names. I started pulling them out, photographing every page with my phone.
Kickback schemes. Bribes to city council members. Unsafe building inspections he'd paid to have ignored. Offshore accounts. A second set of books.
And then, at the bottom, a file with my name on it.
ELENA HARTFORD.
I opened it.
My hands started shaking.
Private investigator reports. Photos of me. Reports of my movements. Who I talked to. What I bought. Even transcripts of phone calls I'd made years ago—before I stopped calling my family.
He'd been watching me. For years.
And at the very back, a document that made my blood run cold.
A psychiatric evaluation. Dated six months earlier. Diagnosing me with "severe borderline personality disorder" and "parental unfitness." Signed by a doctor I'd never met.
He'd been planning this. Planning to have me declared unfit. Planning to take our daughter.
I photographed everything. Every page. Every signature. Every lie.
Then I put it all back exactly as I found it, locked the cabinet, and returned the key.
I called Noah from the garden, where the bugs were loud and Garrett's cameras couldn't hear me.
"I have it," I said. "I have everything. Noah, he's been planning to take my baby. He has a fake psychiatric evaluation—"
"Send it all to Marisol," Noah said. "Right now. Elena, this is huge. This isn't just domestic violence. This is fraud. Corruption. Conspiracy. Federal stuff. He's not going to be able to buy his way out of this."
I sent the photos. Every single one.
Then I went back inside and waited.
That night, Garrett came home in a good mood. He'd closed a deal, he said. He was taking me out to celebrate this weekend.
I smiled and told him that sounded wonderful.
While he showered, I photographed my bruises. My arm in its cast. The fingerprint marks on my neck. I sent them to Marisol too.
And I wrote in my journal. Every insult. Every threat. Every moment of fear.
I was building a case. Brick by brick.
May you like
But I knew Garrett. I knew how he worked. And I knew that when he found out—when the walls started closing in—he would be more dangerous than ever.
I had to be ready.
