I open the door and yell for the girls. I use the codeword we’ve established—the one that means we have to go, there’s danger, and they must do as I’m asking. I don’t use it, not ever, but I do right now.
They come running, eyes wide, hair and clothing plastered to their bodies. I help Poppy buckle while Lily does it herself.
“We’ve got to go help Sam.” I’m out of the parking lot and down the road before I speak, but I know I can’t leave them in silence. They’re scared, and I wish I could avoid telling them anything, but I can’t say nothing.
“Let’s go save her, Daddy.” Poppy has no doubts, no questions. A simple imperative.
I share it. No doubts.
“That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Sam
Andrew paces around my apartment. I’ve been with him for ten minutes and so far, he hasn’t tried to touch me. He hasn’t even seemed violent.
He does seem different, though.
Off.
I can’t pinpoint it, and the reality here is, I don’t know the man. I wasn’t in the best place when we got together, but I didn’t think he’d ever end up hurting me physically.
After a lot of soul-searching in the last year, if not longer, I’ve accepted that part of me probably knew he isn’t a nice guy. He isn’t kind, either, and he never would’ve been a real partner to me. But I’d had this weird sense that maybe I didn’t deserve a partner, and maybe what I needed was to accept that I needed someone who wanted to put up with me and if he could, that’d let me have some breathing room from the stress of living paycheck to paycheck.
Of course, I was tragically wrong on so many counts. But I escaped his web, even if it cost me most of my financial solvency, and I rebuilt myself.
Brick by brick, over time, I did it.
And now, he’s here trying to tear it all down.
“There’s no way it’s as good as LA Indian food. You remember Curry King? Yeah, no one’s beating that naan.”
He’s stopped in front of my bed now and his mere presence there turns my stomach.
“Curry King was great, yeah. This place is awesome, though.” And it’s the only way I could figure out how to call Grant. I didn’t think I could get away with calling emergency services and being so cryptic, but Grant got it, bless the brilliant man.
He runs a hand over the end of the bed, then grips the comforter. A greasy, sick sensation climbs my throat.
“So everything’s just better here, huh?” He turns and pins me with a gaze that makes my blood flash cold.
Because it’s familiar.
Until now, he’s been a version of himself I can’t figure out. A little like when we first met, a little like the last time I saw him where he vacillated between apologetic, angry, and sad about our divorce, but certainly completely ignoring the reality that he hurt me. Oh, and by the way, I’m convinced he never loved me and only ever wanted to control me.
The fact that he’s here now still feels like a waking nightmare. I don’t know where he thinks this will end up, but all I have to do is last another fourteen-ish minutes.
“Of course it’s not. But it’s a fresh start for me, and that’s what I needed.”
He turns toward the kitchen and kicks the leg of a stool right next to where Mr. Bingley is hiding. My sweet, loving cat bolts under the bed and I’m relieved he’s finallyout of sight again. He’d been under the bed when I got back and discovered Andrew squatting here like he didn’t break into my home, but the little fluff inched out as though compelled to keep an eye on me.
Instead of telling him to leave my cat alone, I bite my tongue. I’m not cowering here. I’m waiting. Yes, I could make for the door and scramble down the stairs, but when I first saw him, I backed toward the door and he got this sick, thrilled grin on his face and said, “If you run, Samantha, I’ll have to catch you.”
Knowing Grant wasn’t home and Andrew likely would get to me before I could get to my car, I pivoted. Drawing him out, acting like I’m trying to understand why he’s come, bought me a little time to think about how I’d get out of this. He also slid the deadbolt on the door behind me, set a small side table in front of it, and demanded we talk.
There have been no great revelations. He hasn’t apologized, not that that would make a difference to me now, but he also doesn’t seem to want to hurt me again. Or if he does, he’s taking his time with it.
Just when I’m starting to think maybe he’ll keep wandering around touching stuff and not end up doing anything at all before Grant arrives, he runs a finger along the rim of my fruit bowl, then shoves it off the counter. It shatters, apples rolling in all directions, and I swallow hard.
