The-Hummingbird-s-Cage(8)

I was calmer than I thought I’d be. I shook my head. “He already has.”

Alicia’s penetrating stare bordered on disgust. She slapped her folder closed and stood up. I was surprised—she had a reputation as a terrier, and I thought she’d put up more of a fight.

“Women like you—” she muttered under her breath, shoving her folder in her briefcase.

Something snapped inside. I stood up, too, heat rushing to my face.

“And women like you, Alicia,” I said through clenched teeth.

She froze for a second, studying me. “What are you talking about?”

“You really should be more careful. When your boyfriend, Bobby, knocks you around, don’t call Escobar at the station house to cry on his shoulder. The man can’t keep a secret. And, my God, you should know it’s a recorded line.”

Her pretty face turned scarlet. Later, I would regret being so blunt, so mean. But caught up in the moment, I couldn’t stop myself. Laying into her felt electrifying, like busting loose from a straitjacket, and for the barest second I wondered if this was how Jim felt when he lit into me.

She slammed the front door behind her and we never spoke again. I did see her in court at the hearing for the plea agreement. Without the cooperation of the victim—that would be me—the case was weak. Jim’s defense attorney and Alicia worked out a deal: if he pleaded guilty to misdemeanor disorderly conduct, the felony assault charge would be dropped and he’d serve minimal time. A felony conviction was too great a risk for Jim—it would mean the end of his police career, not to mention a lengthy jail sentence.

The judge agreed. It took all of two minutes.

To this day, if anyone should ask—and no one ever does—I would tell them the same thing I told everyone else: I got upset that day, slipped and tumbled down the stairs. I would swear it on any Bible put in front of me.

I would swear it because Jim wants it that way.

What they don’t know is what happened the same afternoon that Alicia stalked out of our house.

After she left, I opened the back door to call Tinkerbell in from the yard. It was chilly, and after a run she liked to curl up on her blanket by the kitchen stove. Usually she was ready and waiting, but not that day. I called again and again, listening for her yippy bark, expecting to see her fox tail fly around the corner. But there was only uneasy silence.

I stepped outside, and that was when I saw Jim’s Expedition parked to the side of the road a short way from the house. The windows were tinted, so I couldn’t make out if there was anyone sitting inside. I scanned the yard again, panic rising.

That was when I saw Jim.

He was standing next to the shed, watching me. It was a bloodless stare, and it stopped me cold. I stood there transfixed, unable to speak or move. Or turn and run.

He took a slow step toward me, then another. All the while his eyes fixed on me, pinning me like an insect to a mounting board. Then he stopped. I noticed then he was carrying something in his arms. His hand moved over it, like a caress. It whimpered. It was Tinkerbell.

I opened my dry mouth, but it took several tries before I could manage words.

“Jim, you’re not supposed to be here.”

He smiled—but that, too, was bloodless.

“Now, that’s not very nice, is it, girl?” he baby-talked playfully in the dog’s ear. “Not a ‘Hello,’ not a ‘How are you?’” He looked at me and sighed. “Just trying to get rid of me as fast as she can.”

“How . . . how are you, Jim?” I stuttered, struggling to sound wifely and concerned. “Are you eating well?”

He laughed softly.

“Come here.”

“We’re not supposed to talk.”

“Come here.”

“Laurel will be home from school soon.”

“We’ll be done by then. Come here.”

His voice was pitched so pleasant, so light, he might have been talking about the weather. I started to shake.

I moved toward him. When I was close enough, he told me to stop. He turned to the shed, opened the door and gently dropped the dog inside. Then he closed the door again.

I could have bolted then, but to what purpose? Jim was faster, stronger, cleverer. And at that moment, I didn’t trust my legs to hold me up, much less handle a footrace.

Before he returned, he grabbed something that was leaning against the shed. I hadn’t noticed it until then. It was a shovel—the one with the spear-headed steel blade he’d bought last summer when he needed to cut through the roots of a dead cottonwood tree. It still had the brand sticker on it: When a regular shovel won’t do the job.