I manage to smile at him before I make for the door, dropping a kiss on both of the baby’s heads before I leave. And as soon as my footsteps echo around the stairwell to announce that I am well and truly on my own, a weight settles back down on my shoulders.
It’s not just about leaving the twins alone with someone else, though that is part of it, of course. No, it’s the reason that I know I have no choice but to get out of here and spend the next couple of hours at the police station, the reason that I was so upset when Sofia had to take a trip out of town to deal with an issue with her one-time foster family.
I came home to find another note pushed under the door. And I know I need to make a move to put things right before Thom does any more harm to me or my family.
I can still remember the moment I saw it, the sheer shock and horror that twisted through me when I came home to find another paper slipped beneath the doorway after that meet-up with Martin. I had been so freaked out about the thought of someone following me that I almost allowed myself to forget that it was the same place he had struck the first time. And when Iunfolded the note, it was nothing more than a sketch of a pair of eyes, signed once again with his initials.
At first, I tried to ignore it. Tried to shove it down in my memory. I asked Sofia, as casually as I could, if she had heard anything or anyone coming by the apartment while I’d been out, but she told me no. The way she reacted, it was clear she imagined whoever I had been out with might have come by to leave me a grand bouquet of roses, and I didn’t have it in me to tell her the truth.
But I’ve been turning it over and over in my head since then, and I know I have to do something about it. He’s only going to get more emboldened as time passes, and I refuse to put my babies through the same shit that I put up with for so long. What I accepted for myself is a million miles removed from what I will accept for my children.
And that means I need to get the police involved.
I studied law for a while, so I know that getting these things on file is the most important move I can make. I don’t know if they’ll grant me a restraining order or even a protective notice with the evidence that I have, but if I can put it all together, get it registered on the system, then I have a better chance of taking him down if he tries anything else anytime soon.
I wish I had some pictures of the bruises he left on me over the years, the marks from yanking me around the apartment in a rage when he felt I’d stayed out to late, the texts berating me for what I had or hadn’t done in his mind, but I had deleted them all, trying my best to pretend that none of it had ever happened in the first place. I’m not sure I convinced even myself with that, but hey, I had to try.
The bus rumbles below me as I make my way across the city, and I stare out of the window blankly. I wish Sofia was here. I don’t blame her for having her own problems, not a chance; she’s already done more than her fair share of childcare since the twins came along. But having her here at my side would have been helpful. She might have been able to speak to the police about what she saw from Thom over the years, or rather, the way he had cut me off from everyone around me.
Though that would have involved admitting to her that he’d been in touch with me again, and that’s the last thing I want. I’ve already asked for enough from her. She doesn’t deserve to be dragged further into the mess of my personal life.
Martin, thank God, didn’t ask me about what it is that’s keeping me busy tonight. I don’t know if I could even explain it to him if I wanted to. I feel like such an idiot for the way everything has gone down, and it’s hard to pretend that the weight of it doesn’t still feel like it’s dragging me to the bottom of the fucking ocean. He saw me the night I fled Thom’s grasp. He saw the bruises and how frightened I was. Maybe he’s already strung the pieces together enough that he doesn’t need an explanation, but either way, I’m not in any hurry to give it to him.
I’m just glad he’s willing to step up and do the parenting thing when I ask him to. The twins are young enough now that I hope they won’t remember much of this particular interaction, so I won’t have to explain why their father was around sometimes and absent the rest. But I can cross that bridge when I come to it. Right now, I just want to try and get this case moving, and keep Thom as far away from my family as I possibly can.
I arrive at the police station and stare up at the imposing building for a moment. Still time to turn around and pretend like none of this is happening…but I screw up my courage and forcemyself to take the steep steps two at a time, reaching into my bag to close my hand around the note and remind myself why I’m seeing this through.
“Hi,” I greet the receptionist, putting on my warmest smile. In the couple of years I managed at college, I learned what kind of victim law enforcement responds best to, and I can try and embody that in every way I can. I have to be sweet, pleasant, seem like I might be in need of help, so a little needy too—not the easiest balancing act to pull off, but I’m going to do what I can.
“How can I help you?” she asks, slightly bored, as she raises her gaze from her phone to make eye contact with me.
“I was hoping I could speak to one of the officers on duty about a problem I’m having with an ex,” I explain, biting my lip. “I—I think he might be stalking me.”
“You think?”
“I have evidence,” I reply quickly. Can’t seem too needy—if I walked in looking like I didn’t have a clue what I was doing, they would turn me away on the spot. She nods, frowning, and reaches for her phone, muttering something down the line and then turning to me.
“Someone’ll be with you in five minutes,” she tells me, nodding to the plastic chairs adhered to the wall at the other side of the reception area. “Wait there.”
I do as I’m told, clutching my bag in my lap and staring at the floor. I try not to make eye contact with anyone, fearful that it will seem like I’m trying to invite attention. A brief burst of commotion explodes into the waiting room as a man is dragged through the doors in cuffs, yelling for his lawyer, but he’s quickly hustled down an adjacent corridor, gone as quickly as he arrived.
A few minutes later, an officer appears before me. A man—damn, I had been hoping for a woman. They are, statistically, a little more sympathetic when it comes to cases like this one. Still, when he nods to me, I rise to my feet and smile.
“Hello—”
“You said you’ve had trouble with an ex-boyfriend?” he asks, jerking his head toward one of the small rooms attached to the reception area.
I nod. I would much rather not have everyone sitting here know that too, but looks as though I’m not going to get a choice.
“Come on, follow me…”
He scribbles down my name and address on a form once we’re inside the room, and he turns to me, eyebrows raised expectantly, as he waits for me to fill him in on what’s been going on.
“So?”
“So, uh, my ex and I had a strained relationship,” I begin, doing my best to remember everything that I’d planned out in my head for this conversation before I got here. “And I—when we split up, I thought he was done with me. But then, a few weeks ago, I found a note under my door at my new apartment—which I never gave him the address to—which was signed with his initial.”
“You have it?” he asks impatiently, holding his hand out.
