Margot's voice on the phone was thin. Not her usual bright warmth. Something smaller.

"Leila? Can you come to the precinct on West 54th?"

I pressed the phone tighter to my ear. "What happened?"

"There's been—" She stopped. Breathed. "Someone's been following me. For days. Outside the yoga studio. Near my building. I finally got scared enough to report it."

My chest tightened. "I'm coming right now."

"Thank you," she whispered.

I grabbed my coat. Told Zachary's babysitter I'd be back soon. Took the subway north.

The precinct was gray concrete and fluorescent lights. I found Margot in the waiting area. She was sitting on a plastic chair, arms wrapped around herself. When she saw me, her face crumpled.

I sat beside her. Pulled her close.

"I'm here," I said. "You're okay."

She nodded against my shoulder. Her whole body was shaking.

I held her. Stroked her hair. Went to the vending machine and brought back coffee in a paper cup. She wrapped both hands around it like it was the only warm thing left in the world.

"Did you see him clearly?" I asked.

"Dark jacket. Baseball cap. That's all." She stared at the coffee. "He was outside my apartment last night. Just standing there. Looking up at my window."

"Did the police say what they'll do?"

"They're reviewing security footage. They said they'd increase patrols near my building." She looked at me. Her eyes were red. "I'm scared, Leila."

I squeezed her hand. "You're going to be fine. I promise."

The precinct door opened. Christian walked in with two men in dark suits. Security detail. He scanned the room, found Margot, and his expression shifted into something I'd seen a thousand times. Concern. Tenderness. The face he gave her.

He crossed the room. Knelt in front of her chair.

"Are you okay?" His voice was soft. Gentle.

Margot nodded. "I'm fine. Leila came."

Christian's eyes flicked to me. Something cold moved behind them.

He stood. "Can I talk to you for a second?" He wasn't looking at Margot.

He was looking at me.

I stood slowly. Followed him to the far side of the lobby. Near the bulletin board with wanted posters and community notices.

He stopped. Turned. His voice was low. Controlled. The tone he used in boardrooms when he was about to destroy someone.

"Did you hire him?"

I blinked. "What?"

"The man following Margot. Did you pay him to do it?"

The air left my lungs.

"You think I—" I couldn't finish the sentence.

"You're angry. I understand that. But if you think scaring her is going to change anything, you're wrong."

My hands started shaking. I pressed my thumbnail into my palm. The cut split open again.

"I would never hurt her," I said quietly.

"You're hurting right now. People do things when they're hurting."

"I didn't hire anyone."

"Then why are you here?" His eyes narrowed. "She called you. Out of everyone she knows, she called you. That's convenient."

"She called me because I'm her best friend."

"Or because you wanted to be here. To see what you caused."

I stared at him. At the man I used to love. At the stranger accusing me of something so vile I couldn't breathe.

"I saved her," I whispered. "In college. When those girls—"

"That was ten years ago, Leila. People change."

Behind him, I could see Margot watching us. An officer walked past. A woman with a child sat down in the waiting area. Everyone was going about their day. Normal. Ordinary.

And I was standing in a police station being accused of terrorizing my best friend by the man who used to tell me he loved me.

"I didn't do this," I said.

Christian's jaw tightened. "Stay away from her. From the wedding. From all of it. If I find out you had anything to do with this—"

He didn't finish. He didn't have to.

He turned and walked back to Margot. Sat beside her. Put his arm around her shoulders. She leaned into him.

I picked up my bag. Walked to the door. Pushed it open.

The November cold hit my face. I stood on the sidewalk. Cars passed. People walked by with coffee cups and shopping bags. The city moved around me.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

I stood there until they did.

Then I walked to the subway.

---

I got home at six. The babysitter left. Zachary was at the kitchen table drawing.

"Hi, Mom."

"Hi, sweetheart."

I set my bag down. Took off my coat. My hands were steady now. Steady enough.

I opened the refrigerator. Pulled out chicken. Vegetables. Started chopping.

The knife moved in clean, even strokes. Celery. Carrots. Onions.

Zachary looked up from his drawing. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

He watched me for a moment. Then went back to his paper.

I kept chopping. The rhythm helped. The sound of the knife on the cutting board. The smell of the onions making my eyes water.

When the vegetables were done, I pulled out my phone. Scrolled to a number I hadn't called in years.

My mother's name on the screen.

I pressed dial.

It rang once. Twice. Three times.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

No one answered.

I held the phone to my ear. Listened to the silence on the other end. The dead air.

Then I set it on the counter.

Turned on the stove.

And kept moving.

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.