Her regular phone was dead. She grabbed the encrypted one and texted Naomi: Someone downstairs. Call 911. Stay upstairs.
Then she heard his voice.
“Evelyn.”
Below, the keypad to the secure room beeped once. Wrong code. Again. Wrong code. Then the crash of a shoulder into reinforced wood. Then another.
He appeared in the bedroom doorway damp with sweat, shirt untucked, face hollow with bourbon and rage, a folder ripped from the downstairs evidence wall clenched in his hand.
“You watched me,” he said.
“You need to leave.”
“For five years.” He stepped closer. “Like I was some experiment.”
“You’re violating bail. Police are coming.”
“You made me this way.”
That was the sentence men like Gavin always reached for in the ruins.
Evelyn looked at him and, beneath the fear, felt something else finally replace shame.
“You were cruel before you knew my net worth,” she said. “Money didn’t make you dishonest. It only made the consequences bigger.”
He stepped closer, voice dropping. “I’ll take everything from you. I’ll take the baby if I have to—”
A new voice cut through the room.
“Boy, the only thing you’re taking tonight is a concussion if you move another inch.”
Gavin turned.