She sighs. “And how are you since the shooting? You look good.”

“I am good. Great really. And I’m going to seriously consider the social work thing. I can’t promise I’ll move here because I’m just not sure where my life is headed. But school is a good direction.”

“Do that.”

And then she does the unexpected and full-on hugs me. She smells clean and sweet, and I grip her back, loving this new Eve. Back in LA, she was brilliant at her job, but so cold and focused. With her living here and married to the love of her life, it’s as though she’s revived.

Checking my clock, I realize it’s two p.m. Letting go of her, I gather the paperwork for Alicia, a new woman I’m meeting today. I’m going to get down her entire story and organize it, so Eve can then file the necessary paperwork. It’s amazing how we’ve gotten back into our old flow so quickly.

We leave my office together, and I head into the small den where Alicia is already waiting, sitting in one of the cozy floral chairs. Her back is curved and head drooped as though in thought. She hears me enter the room, and her head pops up, on alert. With hair worn in dark, heavy dreadlocks and eyes a sharp black, she silently assesses me. Acne scars and dark spots mar delicate pale skin. She’s not perfect but still beautiful.

“Hi, Alicia. I’m Lauren. Do you want any water or coffee or tea before we start?”

She nervously looks me up and down, and I remember Eve’s warning to look soft, calm, and gentle. Setting my hair back in a clip, I smile.

“Yeah, sure. Coffee’s good.” Dark circles mar her eyes, as though she hasn’t slept in weeks.

I place the notepads on the table and step out of the office, letting out a breath. This woman needs help, and it’s written all over her face. Pouring the coffee in a pink mug and grabbing a few servings of creamer, I step back into the room.

I place the coffee in front of her, explaining what it is I’ll need today.

“Well, I’m here because … I’m afraid for myself and my kid.”

“You’re in the right place.” I sit forward and pick up the large yellow pad, wanting her to know from my body language that I’m listening and taking her seriously. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re afraid?”

“It didn’t start too bad. He’s always had a temper, but I figured, high-stress life and all that. But the rage has gotten worse over time. Sometimes, we’d be talking and all was well, and then boom!” she yells.

I grip the arms of my chair.

“It’s like the man I knew became someone else. After six months or so, the lows with us got lower, and the highs got lower, too.”

“I see.” With a shaking hand, I start scribbling some notes. “Did you keep a log or journal of when these incidents occurred? Any photographs perhaps of physical assault?”