Chapter 17: Echoes and Evidence
Jonas didn't sleep that night.
I know because I didn't either.
His arms were around me like a shield, like a vow.
But behind his silence, I could feel his mind racing, gears turning. Every so often, I'd feel his breath hitch, or his fingers twitch against my waist. I didn't speak. I didn't want to stop him from thinking, from planning.
It was the only thing keeping us both from falling apart.
The next morning, he placed a coffee mug in front of me without a word.
Then he crouched beside me, meeting my eyes.
"I'm going to talk to him."
"No," I said instantly. "Jonas, please. You can't—"
"I won't hurt him," he said, though his jaw was clenched. "But he needs to know. He needs to understand that you're not alone anymore."
"I'm afraid," I whispered.
He reached for my hand. "And that's exactly why I'm doing this."
Later that day, Jonas contacted someone he knew in law enforcement.
Discreetly.
He wanted to know where the lines were drawn—and how close he could get to them without crossing.
The response wasn't what we hoped for.
Without formal charges, the police couldn't do much. Verbal contact wasn't a crime unless it included threats.
The call had been short. Just a name. Just a whisper.
But for someone like me, that whisper was a scream.
Jonas paced as the officer explained the situation over the phone. "Look," the officer said, "I don't doubt your concern.
But unless she reports the abuse, unless she starts the process officially, there's not much we can do.
Even if you confront him and he files a complaint, your intentions won't matter.
You'll be the one investigated."
Jonas hung up, fuming. "This is wrong."
I looked at him, guilt twisting in my stomach.
"I never reported him. I was too scared. And ashamed. I didn't want people to know…"
He stopped pacing and came to sit beside me. "You don't have to justify anything. Ever."
"But I should've," I said. "Now it feels like I let him get away with everything."
"Then let's start now."
That evening, we went to the station.
The officer at the desk was kind but professional.
He listened as I explained.
My hands shook as I described what had happened in my past.
The bruises, the broken dishes, the threats whispered in the dark.
The isolation.
The moment I lost my baby. How I ran and never looked back.
He nodded slowly, then typed something into the system. "This will be recorded as your initial statement. It's never too late to speak up.
But just know, without previous documentation, it may be difficult to pursue charges unless we can find more."
"I had an old phone," I remembered suddenly. "There might be messages. Calls."
We returned home and I dug through a forgotten drawer, pulling out the scratched phone I hadn't touched in years.
Jonas helped me charge it. The screen flickered to life like a ghost returning.
And there they were.
The messages.
Some were cryptic:
Don't forget who you belong to.
You'll regret leaving.
Look behind you when you walk home.
Others were outright chilling.
Jonas's face hardened as he read them.
"This… this is something."
We printed them. We saved every timestamp.
The officer told us it might be enough to begin an official complaint.
A restraining order would require more, but it was a start.
But not everyone wanted to help.
I called someone I had once trusted—my former host family's daughter.
Someone I'd lived with briefly when trying to get back on my feet.
When I told her what happened, her voice turned cold.
"I'm sorry, Lina. But… Klemen is still a friend of the family. He's always been kind to us. I don't want to get involved."
It felt like a slap.
I thanked her anyway, hung up, and sat frozen.
Another rejection.
Another reminder that some abusers wear perfect masks in public.
Jonas knelt in front of me. "I'll be your witness. And your former director too, if he agrees."
And he did.
The next day, my old director sent an email.
I always knew something was wrong. I should've asked more. I'll testify if it comes to that.
That message broke me in a different way.
With gratitude.
I'm telling you this, because maybe—just maybe—you're reading these words and it feels familiar.
Maybe you've lived in silence, too.
Maybe no one believed you.
Maybe they still won't.
But someone will.
It may be a stranger behind a police desk. A new friend. A lover who refuses to let the past define your future.
Don't stay quiet forever.
Even if your voice trembles.
Even if it's years later.
Even if you think it's too late.
It's not.
Jonas held my hand as we walked back into the station the next day. Strong. Steady. A quiet anchor in my storm.
We submitted the messages. Added the names of willing witnesses. Made it official.
I wasn't just a victim anymore.
I was a woman reclaiming her story.
And this time, I wasn't doing it alone.