Turning the Tables
“Why drag me back into this?” I asked, my voice low. “You chose him.”
Stacey wiped her eyes. “Because he’s the father of your daughters. Don’t you want to know who he really is? Don’t you want to protect them? Don’t you want to expose him?”
That hit the nerve she was aiming for.
As much as I hated Alan, I loved my girls more.
“Fine,” I said, grabbing my laptop. “Show me what you’ve got.”
For hours, we went through photos and notes, cross-referencing faces through reverse image searches. One by one, we found the women online and reached out.
By the next day, we’d spoken to several of them.
“Charming… until he wasn’t,” one said.
“Cold. Calculated. Like he was studying me,” another admitted.
Each story was another puzzle piece, building the full picture of who Alan really was — a man who collected women like trophies, carefully documented and discarded.
By dusk, Stacey looked at me with hollow eyes. “What do we do now?”
I stared back, feeling something in me harden into resolve.
“We stop being victims,” I said. “We fight back.”
Alan, meanwhile, had no idea what was coming.
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