“Good,” she said, with the brisk efficiency of someone moving through a checklist they have prepared for this moment. “The judge signed the emergency order. We’re freezing accounts tonight.”
Headlights turned into the cul-de-sac, moving slowly and with the deliberate patience of someone who knows where they are going and what they are going to do when they get there. A sheriff’s deputy got out of the car and walked to my front porch and posted a notice on the door and tested the handle briefly before walking back to his vehicle and pulling away.
I sat in my car until he left. Then I drove to my sister Lauren’s house, because Dana had told me not to go inside yet and because my hands were steadier when I was moving than when I was sitting still.
Dana called again while I was on the road.
“Screenshot everything,” she said. “Every text, every call log, every bank alert. Don’t delete anything and don’t send anything that isn’t through me first.”
