Chapter 1 - The Pandora’s Backup
The apartment was deathly quiet after the front door clicked shut. My mother’s venomous parting words still hung in the air, but they were nothing compared to the cold weight settling in my chest. Savannah was in our bedroom, the door closed, likely curled up in the dark.
I walked over to the kitchen island where her phone still rested, face up. The screen had gone black, but the passcode was burned into my memory—her birthday. My hands trembled as I unlocked it and navigated back to the Notes app.
I expected a few more lines. I didn't expect to scroll.
And scroll.
And scroll.
File after file, date after date, stretching back three entire years—long before we even bought this San Diego apartment, dating back to when we lived in a cramped townhouse in Sacramento. Every entry was timestamped. Every incident meticulously logged like a forensic investigator building an airtight case against a cartel boss.
June 14, previous year: Pushed down the basement stairs. Bernice claimed floor was wet. Left rib bruised for four weeks.
November 2, two years prior: Hot grease splashed on forearm intentionally while cooking. "Clumsy girl" narrative enforced.
I swallowed hard, a lump forming in my throat that felt like jagged glass. For three years, while I was at work pulling 60-hour weeks trying to build our architectural firm, my wife had been living in a domestic horror movie. She hadn’t just endured it; she had archived it because she knew if she ever came to me without proof, my blind spot for my mother would make me defend the monster.
And the worst part? She was right. How many times had I dismissed her tears? How many times had I told her to "just be patient with mom, she's from a different generation"?
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I kept scrolling down, my thumb swiping past hundreds of entries, until I reached a folder pinned at the very bottom, encrypted with a secondary passcode.
My breath caught. The folder wasn't labeled with dates or domestic incidents. It was labeled: The Safe House Account.
