MY MOTHER-IN-LAW BEAT ME WITH A METAL BROOM HANDLE WHILE MY HUSBAND JUST WATCHED—THEN I POINTED TO THE CAMERA ABOVE THE KITCHEN DOOR, AND HE DROPPED TO HIS KNEES BEGGING ME NOT TO CALL THE POLICE.

I wanted to call Tom myself. Sofia said no.

"You aren't his prosecutor, June. Give the receipt to investigators and let them establish what it means."

So I went home and sat at the table where Diane had attacked me. The dent in the chair leg was still there. I'd scrubbed the blood from the tile, changed the locks, and canceled Ryan's access to every device I owned, but the room still felt smaller after dark.

Celia stopped by with a replacement alarm fob and stayed while I tested it.

"You don't have to keep living here," she said.

"I know. I just don't want them deciding where I sleep, too."

A week later, Tom contacted investigators through an attorney. He admitted copying my signature and preparing reports with information Ryan supplied. He said Diane had paid him and threatened to accuse him of stealing company data if he refused to keep helping.

His statement didn't make the bad reports disappear. It did give investigators a trail: project spreadsheets, messages requesting specific signatures, and a folder labeled FINAL APPROVALS.

Tom's lawyer asked whether I would speak on his behalf.

"No," I told Sofia. "He knew families could move into those houses. He had chances to tell us."

Imani disagreed, gently. "He also finally told the truth. That matters."

"It matters," I said. "It doesn't erase what he did."

We sat with that distinction. It had taken me eight years of marriage to learn that loving someone and excusing them weren't the same thing.

Two days later, Sofia forwarded a formal notice: prosecutors had charged Ryan and Diane with offenses related to the fraudulent rebuilding contracts. A separate assault case against Diane was moving toward trial.

At the bottom was a line about Ryan requesting a meeting with the prosecution.

"He's offering to cooperate," Sofia said.