After they leave, I look around my house, conscious of every sound, the hum of the fridge, the gas furnace. There’s a smell in the air, something burning, and I realize my stew is still in the oven. I pull it out. It’s a dried brown mess, but I have no interest in food now anyway.
I text Sophie that I’m going to bed early and suggest she stay at Delaney’s. She answers back right away: Sure. I go through the house, checking everything, pawing through my drawers, imagining things from his perspective. He would have hated seeing my lingerie, would have seethed thinking of my wearing it for another man. I go through my bathroom, imagine him checking every prescription, my makeup, my birth control pills.
A book has been placed open on the side of the bath with a few candles and a bottle of aromatic salts, which had been under the counter, now arranged nearby as though inviting me to take a long, relaxing soak. My celebrity gossip magazines have been tossed into the garbage.
Andrew hated when I read those in the bath.
He must have spent hours in my house. Even the fridge looks like it might have been rearranged, cream behind the milk. I’m sure it was on the side of the door this morning. I’m driving myself mad, thinking about everything he touched. Did he eat some food? Make himself a snack? Then I realize the dishwasher is empty and he’s stacked wood in the fireplace.
I call Corporal Parker and ask if we can meet at the station first thing in the morning to talk about my options. She agrees and suggests I spend the night elsewhere if I think Andrew might come back, but I already tried to call Greg when the cops were here earlier, and he wasn’t home, then I remembered it’s his poker night. He didn’t answer his cell either.
“I’ll make sure the alarm is set this time,” I say.
“Okay, I’ll ask any patrol cars in the area to take some drives past tonight.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that. See you in the morning.” I disconnect my cell phone and sit down on the side of my bed. The sense of Andrew is overwhelming. I can feel his anger, his absolute fury. I’ve broken so many rules. I tuck my shaking hands under my legs.
Get out of my head. Get out. Get out.
The mantra brings me strength, reminds me that it’s a different time, and I’m a different woman. He doesn’t own me anymore. He only wins if I let him scare me. I make myself laugh, force the sound deep out of my belly, harsh and gloating. This is the best you can do?
The laughter dies in my throat.
I grab bedding, blow up our old air mattress, then drag it into the laundry room, near the back door. The floor is concrete, the window single-pane. I climb under my blanket still wearing my sweater, jogging pants, and socks, the knife clutched in my hand, phone under my pillow. Then I stare at the ceiling and wait for morning.
* * *
The roads are icy as I drive to the station. I take it slow, my hands tight on the wheel, my foot light on the brakes. I need to watch for black ice, but I keep glancing up at my rearview mirror. The air is cold and damp. The kind of West Coast cold that sinks into the marrow of your bones. The only cure is a hot bath and an even hotter drink, but none of the usual tricks will help me today. I can taste fear in my mouth, want to scrape my tongue to rid myself of it. He was in my house, my goddamn house. He’s probably watching me all the time. He knows about Greg.
We’re going to have to move, but how can we? We’re so happy here. I’ve worked hard to build my business and Sophie loves her friends and her school. There has to be some other way.
The corporal reminds me to call her Parker. “It’s easier,” she says, and offers me a cup of coffee, which I gratefully accept. Her hands are freckled, and I find this comforting for some reason. While she gets the paperwork ready, I study her across the table. She looks athletic, healthy. She reminds me of someone I could’ve gone to school with. A small-town girl who played baseball, got into trouble on the weekend with her friends, but came out okay. I wonder why she wanted to be a cop. Her father was a cop? Maybe her brother? She probably has a husband and two ginger-haired kids. I bet they want to be just like her when they grow up.
“So tell me about your relationship with your ex-husband?”
“He was very possessive—he had cameras all over our house, I had to text him constantly, he controlled everything I wore, all our finances, and he was a mean drunk. But everyone else thought he was wonderful, including my own parents.” My throat is tight and achy and my eyes sting. I have to stop and catch my breath. I wish she wouldn’t look at me so kindly.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I know how difficult this is. Take your time.”
She makes notes while I explain about Andrew’s jealousy, his violent temper. “When I told him I wanted out of our marriage, he threatened to bury me in a hole at his job site. He said he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from hurting me—he loved me too much to let me go. I’m sure he was in my house.” I tell her about the book on the side of the tub and the magazines.
“Could anyone have seen him entering? Maybe a neighbor?”
“I don’t think so. We’re surrounded by trees.” I’d loved the old farmhouse appeal of the house, the apple orchard on either side, the forest that stretched for miles.
“Has he mailed you any threatening letters?” Parker says. “Or left voice mails or e-mails?”
I shake my head. “Only time I’ve spoken to him was outside the bank on Wednesday.”
“You said he was violent when he was drinking?”
“At first it was just shoving, or twisting my wrist. He liked to break my things. But then he … he choked me one night. I almost passed out. If my daughter hadn’t woken up I think I would be dead.” I touch my neck, rubbing at it as though that will take away the memory.
“You didn’t press charges?”
“I was too scared.”
“What about your daughter? Did he ever hurt her?”
“No—he was a great father. I tried to make sure she didn’t witness any of our fights, but she saw him push me into a coffee table one night. I had some horrific bruises.” I lean forward. “He made it clear over and over again what would happen if I ever left him. In his mind, he owned me. No one else could even look at me. If I smiled at someone, he was enraged. I’m dating someone and he knows about it and that’s going to send him through the roof.”
She looks down at her paperwork, her face thoughtful. Then she meets my eyes. “I’m going to forward this report to the Crown counsel and ask for the peace bond. If they agree there is a threat, they’ll issue a summons for Andrew to appear in court.”
“How long does it all take?”
“We have to find him first to deliver the summons, then it will depend on whether he tries to fight it or not. That will make things a lot more complicated.”
Andrew would enjoy making me face him in court. I will have to be prepared for him to fight this. Even if this doesn’t work, he needs to know I’m not going to look the other way.
“What will the peace bond cover?”
“He won’t be able to have any contact directly or indirectly with you, he has to stay five hundred meters from your residence or workplace, and he has to surrender any weapons. We can’t stop your daughter from interacting with him if she wants to see him, but he won’t be allowed to try to communicate with you through her or go to your home.”
“She doesn’t want to see him.” I have to tell Sophie when she gets home from school. I don’t want to scare her, don’t want her to even think about him, but she needs to know.
“The peace bond will give us more to work with, but we still have to catch him violating the bond before we can actually arrest him.”
I nod again, trying to look calm, but inside I’m a mess of emotions—mostly terror. I’ve seen a few women from our group go through this process. One woman’s ex-husband set her house on fire the day they walked out of court. Sure, he was arrested the next day, but she was almost killed, and lost everything she owned, including her two cats who died in the fire.
; “He’s going to be furious.”
“If you ever feel like you’re in immediate danger, call 911.”
I nod, but I want to ask how long it takes 911 to respond. Five minutes? Ten? How long would it take Andrew to kill me? I watch Parker finish the paperwork, signing her name with a slash.
It’s done. It’s all been set into motion and I can’t stop it now.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DECEMBER 2005
His breathing had finally leveled, but his arm was still slung over my body. I watched the red glowing numbers change on the clock on the night table. The room was pitch-black except for a sliver of moonlight streaming through a crack in the curtain. If I were to pull it back, I’d see snow tumbling from the sky. It had been falling for hours and should be a peaceful image, the trees wearing their shrouds of white and hunched over like old men, the air quiet as though waiting to be told a secret. It should mean sled rides and winter walks, but I just thought of the roads.
Christmas was only a few days away. Andrew and Sophie had decorated the tree while I made hot chocolate and popcorn and brought it to them, my lips molded into a well-practiced smile. It’s the last one. The last time I’ll have to do this with him.
We stacked presents underneath the tree. Gifts from his associates, neighbors, garnished with ribbons and bows of silver, reds, greens, and blues that reflected the twinkling lights. Sophie played with the tags, read the names out loud, shook the boxes, and guessed at their contents.
We wouldn’t be there to unwrap any of them.
I eased my body to the side of the bed, held my breath as his arm slipped off my torso. For a moment his hand drifted across my breast and I shivered, but finally it slid off and landed on the mattress. I stayed still for a couple of minutes beside the bed, ready to make excuses—I was going to the bathroom, getting a glass of water, checking on Sophie—but he didn’t move. I took shallow breaths, my eyes focused on the dark shadow of his face, the hollows of his eyes. I could smell the whiskey on his breath and skin. He’d been drinking it straight, hadn’t even bothered with ice.
When he’d gotten too drunk to move from the couch, he asked me to pour him one. The moment I’d been waiting for. “Sure,” I said. “I just have to go to the bathroom first.”
I stood in the bathroom for what felt like hours with the bottle of pills in my hand, but it was probably only a couple of minutes. I kept reading the label with Chris’s name on it. He hadn’t had any problem getting his doctor to write him a prescription for sleeping pills.
This was the plan, I reminded myself. Andrew had to stay asleep. I carefully removed the cotton from inside the bottle, tapped three small blue pills out into my palm, and stared at them. How much had Andrew drunk? Would three kill him? If I didn’t give him enough, he could wake up. Then he’d kill me. I needed to get back to the kitchen soon, but I still hesitated.
A noise in the other room, a soft thud. I flushed the toilet, put one pill back, and shoved the bottle into my housecoat pocket. Two would have to be enough.
I slipped down the hallway into the kitchen, glanced into the living room. Andrew was still on the couch, muttering something about the “fucking remote.” I poured his drink. My hand hovered over the rim of the glass, then I dropped the pills, let them settle to the bottom, and stirred it until there wasn’t a trace of power. I took a sip, testing. All I could taste was whiskey.
I went back to the living room, handed Andrew his drink, then sat down and waited. Twenty minutes later, he began to lean toward the edge of the couch, his eyes drooping. I suggested we go to bed and helped him walk down the hallway. It was done.
Now my feet padded across the floor and into the laundry room, where I stood on the stool and reached up into the ceiling panel. I took down the tote bags one by one, careful not to drop them. I’d packed the bare minimum over the last week. Not enough for him to notice. Sophie would be upset that we had to leave most of her toys behind, but we’d bring her favorite doll and stuffed elephant—she was sleeping with them now. I’d make it up to her somehow.
I placed the bags by the back door, peered through the side window to see if Chris was at the end of the driveway, and watched for the flashlight. Three blinks, that’s what he’d said. Nothing but darkness.
I looked over my shoulder, listened for Andrew’s heavy stumbling steps, but the house was quiet. The roads would be treacherous—the plows always cleaned the main streets first—and I prayed Chris wasn’t stuck somewhere, wheels spinning. We wouldn’t have a second chance at this. I wished I could take our car but it was in Andrew’s name and he’d report it.
My fingers trailed against the hallway walls as I guided myself toward Sophie’s room. She was sleeping on her side, one hand tucked under her round cheek, the other entwined with a lock of hair. The doll and elephant were on the pillow next to her head. I put them in her bag. Her face was warm and smelled apple-fresh as I leaned closer to whisper in her ear.
“Sophie, wake up.”
She rolled over. I could just make out the whites of her eyes, her long lashes blinking slowly, then she sat up. Her hand touched the side of my face and she softly said, “Mommy?”
“You have to be very quiet,” I whispered. “We’re going on a trip, just you and me. Daddy is sleeping on the couch and we can’t wake him up.”
“Daddy said I couldn’t go on adventures with you. He’ll be mad.”
Yes, yes, he will.
“I don’t want to go.” Her whisper was getting louder.
I leaned closer, said into her ear, “Sophie. Listen to me. We’re going to a special place just for kids where you can color and pick out new crayons and markers, and paint all over the wall, but you have to be quiet like a mouse or we won’t be able to go. It’s all the way over in Vancouver—we’re going to stay in a hotel, then take the ferry in the morning. You remember the ferryboat?”
“Can we sit at the front? Can we see the whales?”
“We can even go outside on the upper deck, okay?”
“Okay,” she whispered, pushing back her covers.
“We’re going to wear pajamas. Won’t that be fun? Just like a slumber party.” I’d gone to bed in fleece pants, dressed her in a warm pair of pajamas. I tugged her hand. She followed along.
We were at the back door. If he woke now, there’d be no excuses. He’d know. I held my finger to Sophie’s lips, lifted our coats off the hook, and eased the door open, almost gasping at the rush of clean, snow-scented air, the cold biting at my skin. The bottom of the door made a soft scrape against the wood floor. I turned to look down the hall, then urged Sophie outside with my fingertips against her small shoulders and bundled her into her coat. Our boots were tucked under the wooden bench on the porch, the fabric stiff and cold as we slid our feet inside. I grabbed our bags, slung three across my back, and hooked Sophie’s over her shoulders.
We stepped off the porch, lifted our legs high with every step through the snow that was already a foot deep. I had to help Sophie a couple of times, my own balance awkward with the heavy bags pulling my weight to the side. Adrenaline and exertion warmed me like a furnace from the inside out. Sophie kept glancing back at the house, her face worried.
“Daddy won’t be upset at you,” I whisper. “I promise.”
I was staring straight ahead, searching the break in the trees for the flashlight beam. Then, finally, three quick flashes. We’d made it.
* * *
The truck was warm, the heater blasting a hot wave at us. Sophie was sitting in the middle. She cupped her hands over the vents while I rubbed her back. “You okay, baby?”
She nodded, but I could hear her teeth chattering.
“I brought hot chocolate in the thermos under the seat,” my brother said, his face grim as he turned the truck around on the narrow road. I held my breath when the tires slid toward the ditch, the back end kicking out, but then the truck surged forward.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Had problems getting out of the driveway
. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I think so.” I turned and looked out the rear window. The house was still dark. Sophie’s gaze followed mine. “Have some hot chocolate,” I said, tugging the thermos out.
“I’m not thirsty.”
I looped my arms over her shoulders, pulled her closer. “Try to get some rest. I’ll wake you up when we get to the hotel.” It was the only choice. If Andrew did go searching for me, he’d check my parents’ and Chris’s house first. I didn’t have friends anymore, and there weren’t women’s shelters in our area. Even if there were, Andrew would find some way to get to me. Sophie settled her face into my shoulder, her nose cold, and I remembered when she was a toddler how she used to insist I lie beside her every night as she fell asleep, demanded that I rest my head on her tiny chest while she stroked my hair and sang “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” After a few minutes, I heard her breathing deepen, felt her body lean heavier against mine. I nodded at Chris, letting him know it was okay to talk now.
“I checked you in earlier,” he says. “Made sure you had one of the back rooms.”
“Will he be able to make it through the snow?” Chris had arranged a ride for us a month ago with his friend Jackson. I’d wanted to leave Andrew as soon as we got back from Mexico, but Chris needed time to get a couple more paychecks and sell his motorbike—I’d only managed to save three hundred dollars; not nearly enough. Then this winter storm had blown through the coast. We’d come close to canceling the plan, maybe trying after Christmas, but then Andrew started drinking heavy again, switching back from beer to whiskey. He came home every night complaining about work, and I knew he was going to explode into another rage soon.
“No problem. You’ll be on the first ferry over.” He handed me an envelope. “It’s four thousand. I can get you more next payday.”
I wished we could get off the island that night, but the best I could do was a hotel near the ferry terminal, so we could catch the six-twenty boat in the morning while Andrew was still hopefully sleeping. I took the envelope and slid it into one of our bags. “I’ll pay you back soon. I can clean houses or babysit. I’ll figure something out.”