Her pause was heavy. “We’ll send someone right over.”

I closed my eyes and pictured the scene: Tyler leaning in close, Charlotte’s hand on his sleeve—until the officers appeared, their voices echoing that his wife had been hospitalized for hours. Public humiliation would be just the beginning.

Two hours later, my brother David arrived, wrinkled and furious. He gripped my hand. “You asked him to come, and he told you to get an Uber?” His face hardened as he read the messages. “Eight years I’ve watched him treat you like a convenience. We’re done.”

Before I could answer, he was on the phone: “Martinez, locksmith. Locks changed tomorrow morning. Morrison Moving, noon pickup. Pack everything of his.”

The speed made me dizzy, but I didn’t stop him.

That night, Charlotte herself sent me an Instagram message: Hannah, I’m mortified. When the police came, I asked why he didn’t leave to see you. He told me you exaggerate for attention, that you were fine. Even after the officers explained. I didn’t know you were really hurt. He is no longer welcome in my life.