Page 54 of This Life of Mine

Someone caught footage of me sitting on the ledge of the ambulance truck, a gray emergency blanket wrapped around my shoulders while an EMT cleaned my hands.

The comments are unhinged—

Someone tried to break in.

The owner got attacked by a thief.

There was a shootout near the shop. I heard gunshots.

Speculation stacked on speculation, each version more dramatic—and more wrong—than the last.

Val doesn’t wait long.

She corners me near the counter, eyes blazing, phone still clutched in her hand like she’s been staring at it since dawn. “Okay,” she says. “What the hell happened last night?”

She doesn’t wait for me to answer.

“I tried to pull the Ring footage,” she adds, lowering her voice. “But it wouldn’t let me. It says it’s restricted.”

I give a reluctant nod. “I locked it.”

Her brows knit together. “You what?”

“I didn’t want you seeing it before I could explain,” I say gently. “Not like that. Not without context.”

Val exhales, scrubbing a hand down her face. “Lina, I woke up to half the town buzzing about our shop. I couldn’t see what happened. I had no certainty if someone attempted to force entry or if—“ her voice cracks, briefly. “If you were okay. I tried calling and texting you, but nothing.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I meant to text you last night with more information, but I needed time to process it all. I locked the video because I needed you to hear from me what happened. I really am sorry.”

She studies my face, searching for something—panic, cracks, anything that tells her how bad this really is.

“Tell me everything.” Val’s arms are crossed, pissed that I kept her in the dark.

“Okay,” I reply. “But not through a grainy video and motion alerts. Come on.”

Val’s shoulders drop a fraction. The fire in her eyes cools into something heavier. Concern.

“Okay…” she says, giving me space to breathe.

I sigh. “We need to talk. All of us.” I say loudly.

Kay freezes mid-milk pour. Joey stops refilling cups. Donna hops down from the book ladder.

That gets everyone moving.

We gather in the back—staff, partners, the people who deserve the truth.

Someone closes the door. Someone else turns off the music. The room seems smaller, tighter, like everyone instinctively knows this isn’t gossip.

I don’t sugarcoat it. I don’t dramatize it either.

“It wasn’t a robbery,” I say. “It was my ex-husband.”

Silence swallows the room.

Val blinks. “Cole?” The name lands sharp. “Why the fuck—“

“He showed up drunk,” I continue. “Outside the shop. He wanted me to go with him or something—and when I wouldn’t—he assaulted me.”