I take a breath as I try to unravel my emotions. This was Chloe’s house first. I feel like an interloper.
He guesses how I’m feeling. “I loved her, Selkie. We were kids having a kid of our own, but she was special. Like you are, but different. Growing up in care fucks with you no matter how great the foster parents are. I had good ones for the most part. So did Chloe. You hear the shit that happens, but it’s not like that for everyone.”
I don’t ask him why he and Chloe were in care. A conversation for a different day.
“I’m glad she was part your of life. I really am.” I say, realizing I mean it. I’m usually not so complacent when it comes to ex-girlfriends and wives.
“Chloe was soft. Quiet. Had this way about her.” He tucks me in closer. “When she entered a room, she brought a sense of calm with her. I was a restless angry boy and she kept me grounded.”
He takes a breath and holds it for a moment before gently letting it out. “She was pregnant with Oscar when our world went to shit.” He stops again so long I start to think he’s changed his mind about telling me.
“What happened?” I murmur as the pounding of his heart gets faster and louder.
He swallows. “She was a waitress and I was working in construction. She worked the late shifts. My workday ended early, but I usually hung around and had a beer with some of the guys.
“Closing was 11 o’clock and I always picked her up.” He sighs and hangs his head. “But that night, I was on my way when I saw one of the guys I worked with on the side of the road. His car had broken down so I stopped to help him. Then we went for a beer.”
I hear him swallow. I feel the tension rolling off him. I don’t move, don’t speak. There’s nothing I can say or do to comfort him.
“I lost track of time,” he says. “Chloe called looking for me. I told her I’d be another half-hour. She said she didn’t mind waiting.” He pauses. “I did that too many times. Made her wait for me. I was an immature prick.”
He shifts away from me but laces his fingers through mine. It’s like he’s hanging off a cliff and I’m the only thing keeping him from falling. “It was well over an hour after we talked when my phone rang. Chloe was calling, or so I thought, but this gruff voice comes over the phone, pissed, angry.
“Get home,” he says bluntly. “Your wife needs you.” Then he hangs up.
“I panicked of course. Who the fuck was calling me on Chloe’s phone? Why the fuck was he with my wife? Not thinking of what he said, just furious at him being there.”
Eight takes a deep breath. “When I get home, Hangman’s there. I never met the guy before in my life. Didn’t know he existed.” He turns to face me. “You’ve seen him, right? Long hair, long beard, tattoos and skull rings. He was wearing his cut, a member of Hell’s Jury.”
I nod.
“I thought the fucker was there to kill me. That maybe Chloe was already dead.” He rubs his mouth. “It was worse than that.
“I went on the offensive, but Hangman knocked my feet out from under me to keep me from attacking him. He said, ‘Someone fucked up your wife. I found her, brought her home but she should be in the hospital.’
Chloe was in the living room, bundled in a bathrobe, huddled on the couch. She was crying, hysterical. Not making sense.”
Eight’s tone is rote as he relates everything that happened that night, words falling out of his mouth, but he’s lost in the past. It’s like I’m not here.
“Finally, she calms enough to tell me what happened. She was gangraped. She served the fuckers that evening and then after closing, when she was waiting for me, they returned, saw her outside, offered her a ride.
She said no, but they insisted.
When they were done with her, they dumped her in an alley like she was garbage. Hangman found her, brought her home. Called me.
“I started weeping, berating myself, hating myself. ‘I’m so sorry, baby. So fuckin’ sorry. This is my fault.’ I kept saying that shit until Hangman grabbed me and hauled me out of the room. He said that this wasn’t about me, didn’t matter what I was thinkin’ or feelin’. Told me to get Chloe to the hospital.” He laughs softly. “Called me a fucker, told me she didn’t need my weepy ass, she needed medical care.”
Eight squeezes my hand harder. “Hangman’s a fuckin’ psychopath, but he gets things like no one else does. I guess that’s why he’s prez.”
“So you took her to the hospital,” I prompt.
“Yeah. She was beaten up and torn up but refused to give a statement to the police. She was scared she was going to lose the baby, scared the extra stress would compound it. The doctor told her the baby was okay. She came home a couple of days later.”
“Thank god,” I breathe, realizing how invested I am in the story. How much I needed for Chloe to be okay.
“Yeah. The hospital bill was enormous. We had no insurance and I thought we were gonna lose the house, but then Hangman stepped in again. Paid the bill. It gave me chills. I told him I didn’t want to owe him. He said he didn’t do it for me. He did it for Chloe. He also said he’d kick my ass if I didn’t look after her. I didn’t need to be told – I was never gonna let her out of my sight ever again.”
Eight tilts his head toward the ceiling. “Chloe lost herself. She was depressed and struggling but she wouldn’t see a therapist. Wouldn’t talk to the cops. Barely talked to me. It’s like she’d already decided what to do.”
