It was 6:43 on Christmas night. I remember the exact time because the digital clock on Carol’s

July arrived with warm, golden sunshine that bathed my downtown apartment in a golden glow. I had planted a small box of herbs on my balcony—basil, rosemary, and mint—and spent Saturday mornings watering them while listening to the distant hum of city traffic and laughter from the park below.

My sister drove up from Cincinnati for the weekend, bringing her dog and a trunk full of homemade preserves. As we sat on my balcony eating fresh strawberries and toast, she looked around the apartment with a wide, proud smile.

“You know, Laura,” she said, shaking her head slightly, “when you called me that Christmas afternoon... part of me was terrified you were going to walk back into that house and bury the story again.”

“I almost did,” I admitted softly, looking down at my coffee mug. “For the first ten minutes at that table, I thought about keeping my mouth shut, eating the ham, and leaving quietly two days later.”

“What stopped you?”

I thought back to the digital clock on Carol’s microwave—stuck three minutes fast, pretending time could be manipulated if you ignored it hard enough. I thought of my split lip, of Rachel’s tired eyes, and of Emily stepping through that doorway like an avenging angel.

“I got tired of being the public relations department for a man who didn't value me,” I said simply. “And I realized that hiding the truth doesn't keep you safe—it just makes the cage smaller.”

My sister reached across the small table and squeezed my hand. “Well, your public relations career is officially over.”