My phone rang at nine in the morning. Margot's name on the screen.

I stared at it. Let it ring twice. Three times.

Then I answered.

"Leila?" Her voice was soft. Uncertain. "Can we talk?"

"Of course."

"About yesterday. At the precinct." She paused. I heard her breathe. "Christian said something to you. I saw his face. And then you left so fast."

I closed my eyes. "It was nothing."

"It didn't look like nothing."

"He's stressed," I said. "The wedding. Everything with the stalker. He's just worried about you."

"But why would he talk to you like that? What did he say?"

My thumbnail found the cut on my palm. Pressed.

"He thought I might know something. About the person following you. Because I was there." I kept my voice even. Calm. "It was a misunderstanding."

"That's insane. You're my best friend. You came because I called you."

"I know."

"I'm going to talk to him. He can't just—"

"Margot." I stopped her. "Don't. He's protective of you. That's all. Let it go."

Silence on the other end. Long enough that I thought she might push back. Might ask the questions I couldn't answer.

Then she sighed. "Okay. If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

"I love you, Leila."

The words landed like stones.

"I love you too," I said.

I hung up. Set the phone on the counter. Stared at the wall.

Seven years of practice. My voice hadn't even shaken.

---

The call came that afternoon. Detective Ramirez. NYPD. He asked for Christian Wells. I told him Christian didn't live here. He asked if I could pass along a message.

"We've identified a suspect in Ms. Kelley's stalking case," he said. "A man with a history of mental health episodes. No connection to anyone in her social circle. We're coordinating with Mr. Wells's security team."

"Thank you," I said.

"Can you make sure he gets that information?"

"I will."

I hung up. Looked at the detective's number on my phone screen.

Christian would get the message. His team would brief him. He would read the report.

And he would not call me. Would not apologize. Would not revisit what he said in that precinct lobby.

Because Christian Wells did not make mistakes. And if the facts suggested otherwise, the facts were filed away and forgotten.

I deleted the detective's number from my call log.

Then I went to pack another box.

---

The school smelled like crayons and floor cleaner. I sat across from Ms. Alvarez in a chair made for someone half my size. Zachary's artwork covered the walls. A dragon. A spaceship. A house with every window yellow.

Ms. Alvarez folded her hands on the desk. "I got your email about the leave of absence."

"Yes. We'll be traveling. Family reasons."

She nodded slowly. "Zachary's a wonderful student. Very bright. Very kind." She paused. "He turned in a project last week. For Father's Day."

My chest tightened.

"It was a card," she continued. "Addressed to 'my dad the astronaut.' He drew a rocket ship. Wrote about how his father explores space and that's why he's never home."

I pressed my thumbnail into my palm. The cut opened. I felt the sting.

"He has a vivid imagination," I said quietly.

Ms. Alvarez looked at me. Not unkindly. "Is everything all right at home, Mrs. Nguyen?"

"Everything's fine."

She held my gaze for a moment. Then slid the leave-of-absence form across the desk. "I'll need your signature here."

I signed. My hand was steady.

"Thank you for letting me know," I said.

She walked me to the door. "Take care of yourself, Mrs. Nguyen."

I nodded. Walked to the car. Got in. Gripped the steering wheel with both hands.

The cut on my palm bled onto the leather. I watched it spread. A small red stain.

I started the engine.

Drove home.

Did not cry.

---

Eddie found me in the kitchen that evening. I was wrapping dishes in newspaper. Packing them into boxes.

He stood in the doorway. Hands behind his back. That formal posture he always had.

"Mrs. Wells," he said. "May I ask about the timeline? For the move?"

"End of the month."

He nodded. Didn't move.

I set down the plate I was holding. Looked at him.

He cleared his throat. "Is there anyone I should contact—on your behalf—if something were to happen?"

The question hung in the air.

I thought about my mother. The phone ringing seven times. The silence.

I thought about Margot. The wedding invitation on my counter.

I thought about Christian. The stranger who used to be my husband.

"No," I said. "But thank you, Eddie."

He studied my face. Then nodded once. "Very well."

He turned to leave. Stopped. Looked back.

"Mrs. Wells," he said quietly. "You've always been kind to me. To Zachary. I want you to know that."

My throat tightened. "Thank you."

He left.

I stood alone in the kitchen. Surrounded by boxes. By the pieces of a life I was dismantling one dish at a time.

I picked up another plate. Wrapped it in newspaper.

Kept moving.

Because moving was the only thing left.