An 18-Hour Flight Full of Questions
Eighteen hours later, I was standing outside my ex-husband Conrad’s house.
The wedding decorations were still draped across the porch railings. Balloons drooped in the summer heat.
But the first thing that caught my eye wasn’t the decorations.
It was the dark stain on the driveway.
Blood.
I rang the doorbell.
Conrad opened the door, his face twisted with anger.
“We’re pressing charges,” he snapped immediately.
“I’m not taking anyone’s side,” I replied, walking past him. “Not until I hear both.”
