Never Let You Go(10)

“Have you heard from him since he was released?”

“No, but you don’t understand. He plays mind games. He would do this to scare me.” My body is breaking out in a sweat and I feel cold all over. I want a thick blanket, a hot bath.

“I’ll check into his whereabouts.”

“I’m not making this up.” I hear the defensive tone in my voice and know I sound hostile, but her expression doesn’t change. “He was here. I know he was.”

“I understand you’re afraid of him,” she says. “But, unfortunately, without evidence of an actual crime or proof he was in the house, I can’t do anything.” Her face is sincere, and I get the feeling she actually does believe me, but it’s not bringing me much comfort at the moment.

“Then what can I do? How can I protect myself?”

“You could apply for a section 810 peace bond, but the Crown will want more evidence that he’s a threat to your safety. If your ex-husband is the one who moved your keys, it’s creepy, but not necessarily threatening.”

“Is that a restraining order?”

“Similar, yes. If you want a protection order, that’s usually granted in family court at the time of your divorce. The peace bond is more of a preventive order. He has to agree to the terms in court and he could fight it. Then it will fall on you to prove why it’s necessary.”

“So I have to wait until he does something really bad.”

“If you do feel he’s becoming a definite threat, give me a call and I’ll help you through the process.” She writes something on the back of another business card, passes it to me. “And if you remember anything else about today, please call me. My cell number is on the back.”

As she walks me to the door I realize that Atticus’s box is sitting on the counter. “I was supposed to bury her bird.”

“It’s raining pretty hard out there now.”

“I said I would do it.” I pick up the box and hold it tight against my chest.

“How about you leave him with me?”

Right. So she can toss him out the window of her car as she drives down the highway? “Thanks, but I know that Mrs. Carlson would feel more comfortable knowing I took care of this for her.” I grab my purse and walk toward the door before she can stop me.

She watches from the back porch as I march to the garden shed and drag the shovel toward the lilac bushes. I stab at the ground, use my foot to jam the shovel into the hard earth. The cold rain is blowing into my face and my hair is getting soaked, icy rivulets dripping down my neck, but I can’t stop. My breath heaves out of me. Come on, come on. I get a chunk of dirt up and toss it to the side. Footsteps come up beside me.

“Are you sure you don’t—”

A clod lands near her feet and she neatly sidesteps, doesn’t say anything else while I dig the hole and place the box inside, scraping dirt back over with my hands.

I stand straight and take some breaths. I don’t look at the officer. I close my eyes, bow my head, and say a prayer for Atticus. Then I say a prayer for Sophie and me.





CHAPTER FIVE


NOVEMBER 1998



She was kicking again. I stopped in the middle of the hardware store, ran my hands over my belly. There was a foot, her tiny bum, or maybe the curve of her shoulder. Andrew was so thrilled when the doctor told us we were having a girl, he bought her a pink fishing rod. I pressed gently on my stomach, smiled as I felt her push back and imagined her doing somersaults. A baby ballerina, an acrobat. I hadn’t planned on getting pregnant five months into our marriage, but when Andrew told me how he wanted to have children young so we’d have the energy to keep up with them, then enjoy our retirement, it made sense. I could always focus on my career later.

I sighed, looked back up at the wall. I’d been staring at this display of kitchen faucets for twenty minutes and still couldn’t remember if Andrew wanted brushed nickel or stainless steel. He’d said, “Just get the ones we talked about,” but he’d been in and out of the house so much lately, giving me instructions in passing, and it seemed like most of it leaked out of my head the minute he was gone. He’d been so patient with me. Twice he’d had to come home from the job site to bring me his spare keys. Later he found my set in the freezer. I couldn’t for the life of me think why I’d put them there. Now he puts them on top of my purse every morning.

When he gave me a concerned look and said, “Maybe you should see the doctor. These pregnancy hormones seem to be making you confused,” I said I was just tired.

He’d been tired too. This new project was taking up so much of his time, but he still fussed over me, always making sure I was eating healthy and going for long walks. I was surprised when he came with me to pick out maternity clothes—most men didn’t seem to care about those things. My friend Samantha teased me that I was starting to dress like a forty-year-old soccer mom, but she liked to show off her body. I didn’t need to do that anymore. Andrew’s taste was more grown-up, mature. What man wanted everyone looking at his wife’s cleavage?

The price labels blurred. I blinked a few times, widened my eyes, and tried to force myself to concentrate, but my eyelids still felt so heavy and I couldn’t stop yawning. I thought of our bed, the chicken stew in the Crock-Pot. Maybe I should give up on the faucets.