"Wrote it up honestly. Pushed for charges." His expression darkens. "Three days later, the wife recanted. Said she'd made it all up during a mental health episode. Case closed."
Tank sets his mug down, as if afraid he might crush it in his grip. "Six months later, she was dead. 'Accidental' overdose. Everyone knew what really happened, but no one did a damn thing. Including me."
The raw pain in his voice makes my chest ache. This isn't just a story to him. It's a wound that never properly healed.
"That's why you left the force?"
"One of the reasons." He shrugs, but the casual gesture can't disguise the tension in his shoulders. "A week after her funeral, Internal Affairs was investigating me for excessive force in an unrelated arrest. Body cam footage mysteriously damaged. Witness statements contradicting each other."
"They set you up," I whisper.
"Tried to," he corrects. "I quit before they could finish the job. Enlisted. Figured the military would be more straightforward. Clear enemies, clear objectives." A bitter smile crosses his face. "Was wrong about that too."
I watch him struggle to find the right words, this man who seems more comfortable with actions than explanations.
"I couldn't save her," he finally says, his voice dropping so low I have to strain to hear it. "That woman. I followed the rules, did everything by the book, and she still ended up dead because thesystem is rigged to protect men like her husband. Men like your ex."
"You're not responsible for what happened to that woman," I say gently.
"Maybe not." He shrugs again. "But I am responsible for what happens to you and Anna now. For what happens to Jenny. And I won't fail this time. But forget about all that now. Tell me more about him," Tank says after a moment. "Mitchell. How did you two meet?"
The question isn't entirely unexpected, but it still makes my stomach clench. I take a breath, steadying myself. If this man is going to help protect us, he deserves to know what he's up against.
"I was a nursing student," I begin, the memories rising like ghosts. "Working at a coffee shop to pay tuition. Derek came in every morning before his shift. He wasn't a detective yet, just a patrol officer. Always ordered the same thing. Always left a good tip."
I stare into my tea, seeing reflections of a past that now seems like it happened to someone else.
"He was charming. Attentive. Made me feel special. No one had made me feel that way since my dad died." I shake my head at my own naivety. "After we started dating, he'd pick me up from late classes, worry about my safety walking to my car alone. I thought it was sweet, him being protective."
"When did it change?"
"So gradually I almost didn't notice," I admit. "A comment about my clothes being too revealing. A joke about how I was flirting with a classmate when I wasn't. Getting upset if I didn't answer his calls right away."
My throat tightens as the memories flood back, sharper and more painful than I expected. "By the time I realized what was happening, we were already married, and I was pregnant with Anna."
"And you stayed for her."
It's not a question, but I nod anyway, tears welling in my eyes. "I thought a bad father was better than no father at all. I thought I could protect her, shield her from the worst of it." My voice breaks. "I was wrong."
"You got out," Tank reminds me. "That takes courage. More than most people have."
"It took him hurting Anna." The admission tears through me, laden with shame and regret so heavy I can barely breathe around them. "I should have left the first time he hit me. Should have left when he shoved me down the stairs and I miscarried our second child. Should have left a hundred times before he ever laid a hand on my daughter."
The mug in Tank's hand creaks dangerously, and I realize he's gripping it so tightly his knuckles have gone white. He sets it down with care, as if afraid he might shatter it.
"He did what?" His voice is deadly quiet.
Too late, I realize I've said more than I intended. Revealed a horror I've never spoken aloud to anyone, not even Jenny.
"It was three years ago," I say, unable to meet his eyes. "He came home drunk, furious about something at work. I said the wrong thing. I can't even remember what now. He pushed me. I fell down the stairs. Lost the baby. At the hospital, he told everyone I'd tripped."
"And they believed him."
"He was a cop. I was a 'clumsy' wife with a history of 'accidents.'" The bitterness in my voice surprises even me. "The doctor knew. I could see it in his eyes. But he didn't say anything. No one ever does."
I don't realize I'm crying until I feel the wetness on my cheeks. Silent tears tracking down my face, carrying years of pain and fear and rage that I've never allowed myself to fully express.
Tank doesn't offer empty platitudes or awkward comfort. He simply stands there, bearing witness to my grief, his presence somehow making it safe for me to finally feel the full weight of what I've endured.
