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Patricia was difficult, not cruel.
Evan was stressed, not controlling.
The money was confusing, not missing.
The insults were jokes, not warnings.
But the concrete did not care what language she used.
Neither did the camera.
Mia opened her eyes and looked at the black lens above the garage.
“Please send help,” she said.
Then, for the first time that morning, her voice steadied.
“And tell the police I have cameras.”
The dispatcher repeated the word back to her.
“Cameras?”
“Yes,” Mia said. “Front door. Garage. Driveway.”
The dispatcher told her not to move unless she had to.
Mia laughed once, but it came out like a sob.
“I can’t.”
Then her phone buzzed against her cheek.
A text banner slid across the cracked screen.
Evan: Stop making a scene. We’ll talk when I get back.
Mia stared at it.
The dispatcher must have heard her breath change.
“Mia, what happened?”
“He texted me,” Mia whispered.
“What did he say?”
Mia read it aloud.
There was a pause.
Then another banner appeared.
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