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I shift closer before I think about it.

“You did the right thing coming in,” he says.

Maggie makes a sound so small I feel it more than hear it.

Her shoulders fold inward, and all at once she looks younger than she did when we walked in. Younger than she should ever have to look as an adult. I want to reach across the years and drag every version of her away from Tom before he ever gets the chance to make her doubt herself.

Since time travel remains rude enough to be unavailable, I squeeze her hand again instead.

She squeezes back.

The officer gives her space, then begins asking all the questions.

Each question lands on Maggie like a bruise.

She answers them anyway.

I sit beside her and listen while she lays out the pieces of her marriage in a room full of fluorescent lights and official forms. Her words come carefully at first, each answer measured, like she’s afraid too much emotion will make her less believable.

That makes me furious.

I hate that she feels the need to make pain presentable.

I hate that Tom trained her to sound reasonable about unreasonable things.

The officer doesn’t interrupt. He asks follow-up questions only when he needs details, and even then, he does it with enough care that my prepared speech about institutional failure remains unused.

For now.

The questions continue until the officer reaches Lucy.

Maggie changes instantly. Her hand goes stiff in mine.

The officer notices too. His pen pauses above the page. “Did he ever harm your daughter?”

Maggie lifts her head. “No,” she says, the answer immediate and fierce. “He never touched her.”

Tom loves Lucy in the way men like him can love people who don’t challenge their version of the world. He showed up for school events. He helped with homework. He knew her stuffed animals had names, and personalities like a good dad should.

That’s the part people outside this room won’t understand.

They’ll want him to be one thing.

Cruel or kind.

Monster or father.

Dangerous or charming.

Tom has always been more useful to himself than that. He knows how to be wonderful when it benefits him. He knows how to make people feel chosen. He knows how to walk into a room and become the man everyone wants him to be.

Then he goes home and makes my sister question whether she can trust her own mind.

The officer nods, writes a note, and doesn’t force the issue into a shape that makes it easier for him. I respect him for that. Begrudgingly, because I have a personal brand to maintain.

Three hours later, the officer places a stack of paperwork on the desk.

Maggie looks emptied out.