During what would be Joey’s last visit to Maryland, in February 2010, we had a fight over a skirt I wore to work. He deemed the skirt too short and called me a hooker. He lectured me about my transgressions — I married someone else; I had sex with other men in the nineteen years we were apart; I had male friends who, according to Joey, I was most likely sleeping with. It was a lecture I had been hearing frequently during our phone calls; I would roll my eyes while I silently recited some of the sentences along with him. But seeing him give the lecture, how his face turned red and his fists clenched as he raged, was different. I realised, this was a dangerous man. I told him to pack his things, and I drove him back to New Jersey. We were over.