Chapter 2: Portraits and Police Lights

I found a whole stack of portraits of Natalie in Derek’s safe!

My mind snapped. He was a goner!

My heart hammered as I fumbled through the papers—shaky, half-panicked, half-furious. My hands moved before my brain caught up. No words, no warning—I just crossed the room and slapped him, twice, scratching up his face!

At first, he just dodged.

He looked stunned, like I’d dumped ice water down his shirt. Then, panicking, he shoved me away.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Seriously, Lillian, have you lost it?"

His voice cracked, part outrage, part fear, like a kid realizing the family dog really would bite. That only made my anger burn hotter.

I shoved the portraits in his face.

"I’m crazy? You’re the sick one! Secretly sketching your sister-in-law—how disgusting can you get?"

The room stank of graphite and sweat, evidence scattered across the hardwood like confetti after a party gone wrong. Looking at the sketches strewn on the floor, Derek’s eyes went bloodshot.

"Lillian, I’ve never met anyone as vile as you!"

He jabbed a finger at my face, voice shaking. He looked like he was ready to throw down for real.

"You’re just jealous of Natalie—full of spite! But you’ll never compare to her—not even a little!"

The words stung, more than I wanted to admit. Was I really just a shadow in my own marriage? Was I always the backup plan? "Why wasn’t it you who died back then?"

I’d heard that line too many times.

But every time, it still made me snap!

I grabbed a stool and charged at him.

"Go to hell!"

That day, we fought our way right into the police station.

There we were, limping, bruised, and half-crazed under the harsh fluorescent lights. The cop behind the glass sipped bad coffee, his badge glinting under buzzing fluorescent lights. Someone’s old donut box sat on the counter. He looked at me with sympathy: "Did you suffer domestic violence?"

I sneered.

"Who do you think you’re looking down on? This was mutual assault, got it? Mutual!"

Even though my hair was a mess and my face was bruised—

Derek’s head was bleeding!

I totally won that round.

I grinned at his scowl, feeling a twisted sense of triumph. Walking out of the police station, we pointed at each other’s noses.

"This marriage is over!"

"Whoever doesn’t get divorced is a total loser—like, leash-and-collar loser!"

We said it in unison, right there under the flickering streetlamp outside the station, neighbors gawking from their porches. For once, we agreed on something.