The man who had driven me was the maid’s nephew. He spoke gravely: “You cannot return. They’ll be looking. The longer you stay, the greater the risk.”
But I had nothing. No belongings, no way to run. Then the maid pressed a pouch into my hand—some bills, my ID, and a simple phone she had secretly retrieved.
But hiding couldn’t last forever. One evening, the maid arrived with a grim face. “They’re growing suspicious. The only way out is evidence. I’ve hidden records of their illegal deals. If we bring them to the police, they won’t be able to touch you.”
The Dangerous Night
The plan was desperate. While she worked, she would slip the documents through the gate to me and the nephew.
That night, under the cover of darkness, we waited. She emerged clutching a bundle of papers. But as she passed them to us, a shadow lunged from the doorway.
It was my husband. His snarl froze me in place.
“What are you doing?!” he roared.
The maid stepped forward, shaking but defiant. “Enough! How many lives will you destroy before this ends?”
The nephew grabbed my arm, clutching the bundle. “Run!” he shouted.
We sprinted through the night, hearts pounding, until we burst into the nearest police station and slammed the evidence onto the desk.
