The next three days were a blur of phone calls, paperwork, and sleepless nights.
Elena filed the lawsuit to void the deed and got a temporary restraining order blocking any transfer or encumbrance of the property. A domestic violence advocate from the county’s family services office met with Sasha to talk about safety planning and a protective order.
I watched my daughter struggle to explain what had happened. Sometimes she spoke clearly. Other times, small details broke her: the little brass bell Denise rang when she wanted breakfast, Taylor complaining if her towels weren’t warm from the dryer, Omar inspecting the kitchen every night.
“He said I was lucky,” Sasha told the advocate. “He said most women my age wouldn’t find another husband.”
I wanted to tear something apart. Instead, I sat beside her and held her coat, because I was learning that helping my daughter didn’t mean fighting every battle for her. Sometimes it meant making sure someone was next to her while she fought.
On Wednesday afternoon, someone knocked on my apartment door. It was Jenna, Derek’s wife.
She looked younger without that crowded living room behind her. She wore a faded denim jacket and carried a canvas bag, and her hands were shaking.
“Please,” she whispered. “I don’t have much time. I need to talk to Sasha.”
Sasha came into the hallway. Jenna’s eyes filled with tears.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “For sitting there while they treated you that way. I should have helped.”
At my kitchen table, she opened her bag and took out a stack of photocopies, a small notebook, and a flash drive.
“Derek told me they’re meeting with someone on Friday. He says the deal’s almost done. They’ve been planning what to do with the money. Taylor wants a new car. Morgan wants to open a boutique. Derek wants to pay off his debts. And Denise says she deserves the biggest share, because she organized everything.”
“Organized what?” Sasha whispered.
“I don’t know all of it. But there’s a video on here. Derek recorded it because he thought it was funny.”
I opened my laptop. The video showed Sasha’s living room. Denise sat on the couch with a glass of wine. Taylor and Morgan were laughing.
Omar’s voice came from behind the camera. “How long before she signs?”
“Give her another week,” Denise said.
Derek laughed. “She’s already sleeping next to the washing machine. What more do you want?”
Denise smiled. “She has to feel like she has no other choice.”
“And if she still refuses?” Omar asked.
Denise’s answer was unmistakable. “Then we do it the way we did before.”
The video ended.
“Before?” Sasha whispered.
Jenna started crying. “Derek said there were other houses. Other women. He said they’d never made this much before, but they’d done it enough times to know how it works.” She looked at me. “Mrs. Collins, I don’t think your daughter was the first.”
I copied the video and called Elena. “You need to see this,” I said.
Elena watched the video twice. Then she went through Derek’s notebook page by page.
Most of it was household expenses: groceries, gas, school supplies. But near the back were several pages in Derek’s handwriting. One listed Sasha’s address with dates and dollar amounts. Another listed an address in Pennsylvania, and a third a small property in Ohio.
Beside one entry he’d written DEED COMPLETE, beside another OWNER COOPERATIVE, and beside Sasha’s address PENDING — HIGH PRIORITY.
“Do you recognize any of these names?” Elena asked Jenna.
Jenna pointed to the Pennsylvania entry. “Elaine. I heard Denise mention someone named Elaine once. She said Elaine had been difficult, but eventually understood what was best.”
Elena photographed every page. “I’m sending this to the sheriff’s financial crimes investigator and the district attorney’s office,” she said. “And I want to find the people connected to these addresses. We need to know whether there’s a pattern.”
Then Elena arranged for an advocate to help Jenna, who was terrified of Derek. “He told me if I ever made trouble, he’d make sure I never saw my kids again,” she whispered.
Sasha reached across the table. A week earlier, she’d been afraid to ask for a bed in her own house.
“Maybe you don’t deserve forgiveness yet,” she told Jenna. “But your kids deserve to be safe.”
That night at eleven, someone started pounding on my front door: three hard blows, then three more.
“Margaret! Open up! I know she’s in there!”
It was Omar.
Sasha went white. “Mom, please don’t open it.”
“I won’t.” I called 911.
Omar heard me talking to the dispatcher. The hallway went quiet. Then his voice came back, lower and colder.
“Tell Sasha she has until Friday.”
“Until Friday for what?”
He laughed. “To remember whose family she’s dealing with.”
His footsteps went down the hall. By the time officers arrived, he was gone. They took our statements and photographed the cracked trim where he’d kicked the doorframe. The next morning, Elena added the incident to Sasha’s petition for a protective order, and a judge granted a temporary one that afternoon.
“Mom,” Sasha asked that night, “do you think he’ll hurt us?”
I wanted to promise her he wouldn’t. But I’d already made one promise I couldn’t fully keep.
“I think he wants us frightened,” I said. “And I think we have to take that seriously.”
She leaned against me. “I’m tired of being afraid.”
“Then we won’t let fear make our decisions.”
