My husband. The noun tasted metallic and rotten.
Without a syllable of defense, I slipped my phone from my pocket, ignored the tidal wave of new notifications obscuring the screen, and navigated back to the 2:47 a.m. text message. I held the glowing rectangle to the crack in the door.
The older cop leaned in. His eyes tracked left to right. He stopped, leaned back, and blinked. The younger rookie beside him bit his bottom lip so aggressively I thought it might hemorrhage.
“Is this… factual?” the senior officer asked, his authoritative tone dissolving into genuine bewilderment.
“He transmitted it from Nevada five hours ago,” I replied, my voice a flat, dead calm. “After marrying his subordinate.”
The radio strapped to the older officer’s shoulder suddenly shrieked. A distorted, shrill wail bled through the static. It was Margaret, Ethan’s mother. Her vocal register perpetually existed in the intersection of a wounded aristocratic matriarch and an air-raid siren.
“Ma’am,” the officer barked into his lapel microphone, preemptively defeating her, “this is a civil discrepancy. He engaged in matrimony with another citizen. We lack the jurisdiction to compel her to open the door.” He snapped the radio’s volume knob to zero.
“He claims you’re holding his assets hostage,” the rookie chimed in, attempting to regain professional footing.
“The deed and mortgage are exclusively in my legal name. I purchased this property long before our entanglement,” I stated, staring dead into the rookie’s eyes. “I am currently packaging his personal effects. He may retrieve his boxes from the garage later today. If he attempts to breach the threshold, I will press felony breaking and entering charges.”
The officers exchanged a look of profound resignation, nodded, and retreated to their cruiser.
I shut the door and finally unlocked my phone to assess the vibrating chaos.
