More crying followed.
“Leave now. You hear me?”
No answer.
“Sam. Take the kids and leave. Do it for them. For you. And for him too, if you have to. Otherwise, nothing will change. If he really loves you, he’ll put in the work. Maybe he’ll be one of the few abusers out there who actually changes. But only if you stop putting up with this.”
A long pause. Breathing. Sniffling.
“I’ll meet you there,” she finally said. The line went dead.
I was about to leave, when a sharp pain hit my chest. It spread quickly and cut off my air. For a second, I thought I was having a heart attack. But then I remembered this feeling, from a long time ago. When I found out I was pregnant with Lacey at only seventeen.
It was panic. Raw and uncontrollable. I was having a panic attack.
“Not now, Nicole,” I scolded myself and clutched my chest. “Stop it. Not now!”
I slammed the door shut behind me and hurried back to the car.
The plan formed quickly. Playground first. I had to get them somewhere safe.
And after that, I would do the one thing I dreaded more than anything else.
But I needed help.
And doing this alone wasn’t possible anymore.
Chapter 27
Nicole
We were all here. In my living room. Like some kind of broken family retreat.
Sam sat slumped on the couch, shoulders caved in, her body folded in on itself. Her eyes were swollen and red. One eye was half shut, purple and yellow already blooming where the prick had hit her.
The kids slept next to her, curled up together on the couch. Mouths slightly open. Faces smudged with dried tears. One small foot dangled over the edge.
I shifted closer to Sam, fingers wrapped around her hand, and squeezed it. She squeezed back without looking at me.
Detective Nolan stood in the middle of the living room. He wasn’t sitting. He was just standing there.
His gaze moved slowly and settled on me. Then Sam. The kids. And back to me again.
The room was completely silent. The only sound was the clock on the wall, ticking loudly.
Then Nolan’s shoulders sagged. His hands came up to his face, and he rubbed it hard. When he spoke, his voice was muffled through his fingers.
“Nicole, can … um … can I talk to you please?”
“Sure,” I said.
His hands dropped to his hips. He straightened, then glanced past me toward the couch. Sam. The kids. Then his eyes locked back onto mine.
“Alone?”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.”
The kitchen light flicked on as we stepped inside. He paused in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder again, eyes lingering on Sam. On the bruises. On the sleeping kids.
