Seven Years To Forget Your Name

The sixth time I ended up at the precinct after a physical altercation with my husband’s ex-wife, Grant finally broke.

He grabbed a pair of scissors from the desk and, right in front of the officers and me, plunged them into his own shoulder.

“Are you satisfied now, Riley?” he choked out, his voice trembling with a terrifying mix of rage and despair.

I stood frozen, the air in the room suddenly too thin to breathe. Before I could even process the sight of the blood blooming through his dress shirt, he snatched a box cutter from the evidence table and dragged it across his wrist.