Not to mention, Quinton isn’t a hardened criminal who likes to get his hands dirty. We went for couples pedicures on the regular.

I’m brave because I have a great support system. Brave because I have my family and friends with me. Some of them have stayed outside, not wanting to overwhelm me—Grace, Georgia, Lola, Carolina, Chloe, and Rex.

We take small steps into the station. Kyle, my mother, Sierra, and Lincoln all at my side, forming a line of protection with me. All eyes turn to us at the sound of the door shutting, and the first officer I see is him—the one who was chummy with Quinton and arrested me instead. Fear spirals up my spine, and if my hands weren’t clasped with Lincoln’s and my mother’s, I’d be out the door, running and changing my mind.

Kyle shakes his head, muttering a curse underneath his breath, knowing he’s the dirty one since I described him to a T on the drive here. It’s one thing my brother hates—dirty cops. He plays by the rule book as best as he can, treats everyone with respect, and doesn’t use having a badge to his advantage.

When I make it to the front counter, I clear my throat before saying, “I’d like to report an assault.”

The woman nods and asks me to follow her before calling for a man to come with us. A heavier-set officer steps up and waddles his way toward us, gulping down a coffee on his way.

This is it.

There’s no going back.

We cram into a small, chilly room. I take the chair across from the officers, my mom occupying the one next to me and Lincoln collapsing into the one on my other side. Everyone else stands behind me, and a sense of comfort settles through my body at the feel of Sierra’s hands clasping my shoulders, a gentle squeeze of assurance that she’s here for me.

The officers are kind as I speak and don’t seem frustrated as I slowly ease into the story of what happened the night Quinton came to my house and put his hands on me. My mother cries, short sobs coming from her, but I stay strong. Not one tear drips down my face. A few times, my voice nearly breaks, but I suck in deep breaths to stop it.

I am strong.

I got this.

He will go down for touching me.

Goose bumps rush up my arms when I ease the sweater off my shoulders, revealing a cotton cami and the bruise. The woman officer snaps photos from dozens of angles and has me sign my statement before sliding a restraining order across the table. After I fill it out, they tell me they’ll be in contact.

As I walk out of the station, a heavy weight the size of an elephant drops off my shoulders.