Never Let You Go Page 11

  “Did they answer?”

  “No, but I understand. I ruined their lives.” He looks at me. “I messed up yours too.”

  “It’s been really hard.”

  “I missed you a lot. I didn’t appreciate how good my life was. The stuff I used to get pissed off about…” He shakes his head. “I hate that I scared you and your mom.”

  “I don’t remember being scared of you.”

  “Are you scared of me now?”

  “I don’t really know you anymore.”

  “I get that.” He nods, picks up his rod, and walks to the shore. I wait on the log, not sure what to do. I watch him as he casts his fishing lure, and reels it in slowly. Then I push myself up and go over to stand beside him. He glances at me. “So tell me something I don’t know. Your best friend is Delaney. Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “No.” I laugh, but the first image that pops into my head is Jared’s face and I wonder why I’m thinking about his sleek black hair or how I might like to draw his crooked nose.

  “What about you?” I say. “Do you date people now?” It’s a strange concept, thinking of my father, Andrew, out having dinner with a woman. Would he talk about me? Would she want to meet me? Maybe she’d have kids and then it would be like I had siblings. Then I remember that Mom doesn’t know about any of this. It’s not like I can share Christmases.

  “I had the love of my life already.”

  “You mean Mom?”

  “Always.”

  I feel sick in my stomach, the roast beef in uproar. Maybe it’s time to tell him the truth. “She has a boyfriend. I didn’t tell you last time because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

  He stares out at the river for a really long time. I can’t read his expression. I thought it was better he knows about Greg so he can move on, but now I wish I hadn’t said anything.

  “That’s good,” he finally says. “I want her to be happy.”

  “You angry?”

  “I’m disappointed, but I understand. She hasn’t talked to me for a long time.”

  I have another horrible feeling that I’ve made a big mistake, that maybe he’s doing all this for a different reason. “You can’t come around her. She doesn’t want to see you.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t mess things up this time.” Before I can say anything else, he glances at his watch. “We better get going or I’ll miss the plane back to the island.”

  We pack up all our things and I walk him to his truck, where he tells me I owe him twenty dollars for tackle. I know he’s joking because he has that sideways smile, so I laugh, but I’m thinking about how he said this time. As though he still has another chance with her. I’m scared he didn’t hear anything I said about Mom. That he doesn’t believe me.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  LINDSEY

  OCTOBER 2005

  I was raking leaves in the front yard, and picking up walnuts that stained my fingers black, when my brother pulled into the driveway in his old blue pickup truck.

  “Mom said you canceled Sunday dinner,” he said.

  I’d carefully applied makeup to my bruises, then wrapped a scarf around my neck. Sophie wanted to know why I was wearing it inside. I told her it was my new style. She wore one to school this morning as well, the ends trailing behind her.

  Andrew had watched me while I made breakfast but he didn’t say anything, just drank two cups of coffee back to back and swallowed some Tylenol. I turned around once and saw his eyes settle on my throat, then drift away, something dark coming into his face.

  “I’m not feeling good.” My voice still sounded raspy, from pain and fatigue. I’d barely slept all night, could only stare at the ceiling and replay the way Andrew’s hands had felt around my throat, my lungs screaming for air, the certainty that if Sophie hadn’t called out, he’d have kept going until I was dead. She’d saved my life. I used to be able to convince myself that he wouldn’t really hurt me, he wouldn’t go that far, something in him would make him stop. He loved me. I couldn’t lie to myself now. It was going to keep happening.

  Maybe next time it would be a shove into the furniture, or he’d knock me down the stairs—something he could blame on me. But how soon before he slapped or punched me? Or broke a bone? How soon before he lost all control and choked me again?

  Chris came around the front of his truck, took the rake out of my hands, and started scraping it on the ground, adding leaves to my pile. I flashed to us doing this when we were children, seeing who could build the biggest pile. Hurricane would pounce in the middle and we’d have to start all over again. I thought about Blaze. How much I’d wanted Sophie to grow up with a dog.

  I turned away, scrabbling with my hands at a walnut half buried in the dirt. I didn’t want Chris to see me cry. I took some breaths, tossed the walnut into the wheelbarrow.

  “The squirrels bury these everywhere,” I said. “Crows drop them onto the roof and I can hear them rolling down all day and night. They clog the gutters. Drives Andrew crazy.”

  “I called him last night to wish him a happy birthday and see about stopping over. He said he was out with Sophie and that you had a headache. Must have been a pretty bad one.”

  I blinked a couple of times, fighting to keep calm. He knew something was going on. I glanced back at him over my shoulder. “It was a sinus headache. I took a couple of Advil and went straight to bed. Andrew was sweet about it.”

  “Good.” He was looking into my eyes, not letting me break the hold. “I’ve been wondering if things are okay with you two.”

  “Of course.” I wanted to tear away the scarf, wanted to show him the bruises and beg for his help, but I made myself smile. “Everything’s great.”

  “You seem different when he’s around. Like you’re tense or stressed about something.”

  I stood up, brushed my hands off. “I’m probably just tired. We’re okay, really.”

  “You know you can tell me what’s going on, right? I won’t say anything to Andrew.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.” I shrugged. “I’m happy.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Lindsey. You don’t smile anymore, not the same way. And you don’t do anything with your friends, or go anywhere. You used to have lots of goals. What happened to you going to school? It’s like you’ve given up on everything and Andrew is your whole life.”

  “I have a child now. Things have changed.”

  “Come on. That’s an excuse. Some of your friends have kids and I see them around. They ask about you. Samantha told me you never call anymore.”

  He wasn’t going to believe that everything was perfect. I looked down the driveway, then back at him. “We’re going through a rough patch, but we’re working things out. Sophie needs him,” I said. “He loves her so much, and he’s good to her.”

  “You can’t stay with him just for Sophie.”

  “There are other reasons. You don’t understand.”

  “Other reasons? Like what?”

  I grabbed the rake from his hands, scraped it hard against the dirt, and kept my head lowered. “I really need to finish this.”

  “You’re worried about Dad? He can get disability because of his shoulder. He hasn’t applied because Andrew told him that he needed him too much.”

  I spun around. “I can’t leave, okay? I’m married. I made a commitment.” I didn’t realize I was touching my throat until I saw Chris watching, his eyes narrowed. I dropped my hand. “You should get back to work. Andrew will wonder where you’ve gone.”

  “Why are you so scared of him?”

  I shook my head mutely. The tears were too close. I wanted to tell him I wasn’t scared, I was fine, I didn’t need his help, but I was afraid I’d break down if I tried to speak.

  “Does he hurt you? Is that it?”

  I dropped the rake and walked away, heading toward the house. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t look him in the face and tell him that my husband had choked me. He grabbed my arm.

  “Lindsey, stop. T
alk to me.”

  The sobs were building in my throat, strangling me. I didn’t want to cry. If I started, I might not be able to stop. I covered my face. He grabbed my shoulders, looked into my eyes.

  “You have to tell me. You have to protect Sophie.”

  “Don’t you get it?” I was almost yelling, the pain and grief desperate to come out. “That’s what I’m trying to do! He’ll take her away. He has all the money—everything.”

  “I’ll help you find a lawyer. Someone good.”

  I laughed bitterly. “You still don’t get it. He almost killed me last night.” I grabbed the scarf, unwound it from my neck, and pointed to my bruises.

  It took a second for him to react, then his whole body erupted with rage. His face reddened, his fists clenched, and all the tendons in his neck were sticking out like a bull about to charge.

  “That fucking asshole. I’m going to beat the shit out of him.”

  Now I was the one grabbing his arm. “You can’t tell him you know. He’ll hurt me again.”

  “Jesus, Lindsey.” He ran his hands through his hair, white-blond like mine. He looked older, suddenly—he was a man. Not my little brother anymore. “Maybe we should tell Dad.”

  “We can’t. I’m scared he’ll do something to them if they try to help.”

  “Okay.” Chris looked calmer. Still upset, but not like he was going to attack Andrew at his job site, and I was relieved. His gaze flicked to his truck, then back to me. “There has to be a way.…”

  “I’m trapped, Chris. He watches me constantly—there are cameras. He monitors everything I do, every single day. This corner of the yard is the one place he can’t see on the cameras. The only time he’s not watching me is when he’s asleep.”

  His eyes met mine. “How does he sleep when he’s drunk? Does he pass out?”

  “Sometimes, but he’s restless. He wakes up if I move an inch or even roll over onto my side. I’d be too scared to sneak out—and it would be hard to keep Sophie quiet.”

  “What if I have an idea?”

  A few minutes later, I stood under the trees with my brother, while the wind blew leaves down around us and walnuts thumped onto the ground and my hands went cold, but I didn’t feel any of it.

  I was feeling hope. For the first time in years.

  * * *

  Andrew gave me a card after dinner, slid it across the table when Sophie had gone into the living room to watch cartoons. I stared down at the big red heart on the front, the shiny silver embossed words. My Darling Wife. I didn’t want to open it, but he was watching me.

  I read the romantic poem inside and tried not to flinch. There was a letter from a travel agent. He’d bought three tickets for Cancún, leaving mid-November. Two weeks from now.

  He’d signed the card, Love always, Andrew.

  “It will be good for me to take some time off,” he said. “I need to focus on you and Sophie.” He reached for my hand, held it across the table. “What do you think?”

  I needed at least a month before Chris and I could put the plan into motion. It was going to be hard enough to pretend everything was okay if we stayed home. I couldn’t fake my way through a vacation. He was going to want to have sex every day. What was I going to do?

  “Sophie has school.”

  “She can miss a week.”

  “I don’t know. There’s so much to do before Christmas.”

  “Christmas is almost two months away. Think about how much Sophie will love it. The ocean, the pool. She’ll have a blast.”

  I stared at him over the table. He was using Sophie again, twisting the knife.

  He leaned closer. “Lindsey, I’m really sorry about what happened, okay? Please let me make it up to you. We can spend the whole week relaxing. You can use the spa, get a massage every day, facials. Remember how much you liked those margaritas on our honeymoon? We can take one of those night cruises and watch the rhythm dancers on the beach. I’ll even dance with you. Whatever your heart desires, it’s yours.” He smiled hopefully, his voice teasing, but I saw the fear in his eyes. He knew he was losing me. His fear didn’t make me feel safe, though. It scared me even more. He would do anything to keep me from leaving.

  “It sounds lovely.” When he released me to reach for his beer, I rested my hand in my lap and dug my nails into my palm until the urge to scream had passed. It would be okay. Maybe it would even be better if he thought I was looking forward to a vacation with him. He’d feel more confident that everything was fine and might not watch me as closely. Soon. I’d be free soon.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  DECEMBER 2016

  It’s been a long day of cleaning. Wednesdays I have two houses, neither of which are small, and I’m looking forward to the weekend. Maybe Sophie and I can go to a movie or do some cross-country skiing. She doesn’t love the skiing, prefers to sit in the lodge by the fire and draw, but I can usually get her out for a few hours. It would be nice to see Greg too. He was busy last weekend working on his truck—the transmission blew right in the middle of his Christmas rush. He’d joked about borrowing money. “Don’t suppose you have a few thousand dollars lying around, do you?” But when I asked if he was serious he said, “No, I’ll work it out.”

  When I told him I saw Andrew in town he was concerned and reassuring, which was nice. “Try not to let it worry you too much, but call the police next time.” He offered to come over that night after his truck was fixed, but he sounded so tired, I said that I’d be okay. I figured he could use a break. Later, walking around my silent house, I wished I’d said yes.

  When I arrived at Marcus’s this morning for our workout, he took one look at me and said, “That bad, hey? I’d hug you, but you look like you might burst into tears.”

  I nodded, held my mouth in a grim line. “I need to toughen up.”

  “No, you’re great, but I am going to show you how to fight mean, okay?”

  “What have we been doing all these months?”

  “Baby steps. Now I’m going to turn you into a lethal weapon.” He smiled, and I appreciated the humor so much, I almost did give him a hug, but he was probably right. I would cry. I took a step back, pretended to dance around and box the air, uppercuts, jabs.

  He watched me for a moment. “Okay, maybe I’ll just show you how to kick a guy.”

  * * *

  I drop my purse on the kitchen table, grab a water from the fridge, and lean on the door for a few moments, considering my dinner options. Quesadilla for one? Frozen pizza? Maybe leftover sausage and potato stew with toast—I burned enough calories today. Sophie texted me that she was going to Delaney’s for dinner and would be home around eight. I pop the stew into the oven and make my way upstairs to do some online Christmas shopping.

  My bedroom is cold and I shrug on a sweater and pull on my favorite fuzzy socks while I wait for my computer to boot up. I sit at my desk and check my e-mails, but nothing downloads, which is strange—I always have a few e-mails, even if they’re mostly junk. Then I realize some of the e-mails in my in-box are new—one is a potential client looking for an estimate, but the messages have already been opened, the subject headings no longer in boldface. I stare at the screen. Did Sophie come home at lunch? Why would she use my computer?

  I scan down the list, check the time and date. A bunch were from the night before—e-mail flyers, Groupons, winter clothing discounts, Christmas sales. The inquiry about the cleaning was sent at six in the morning, just before I woke up. Then I check the time on the two other e-mails. They were sent while I was at work this afternoon, but they too are showing as read.

  One is from Jenny about Christmas presents, chatter about what she’s getting each of her daughters. The other is from Greg. I click on it, skim the content. He’s sorry about the weekend, can’t wait to see me, thinks I should spend a night at his house soon.

  I’ll make you breakfast and deliver it in bed.

  I can’t look away from the screen, my blinking cursor, the damning words. I’m ancho
red to my chair, but inside I’m moving everywhere at once. Fear heaves and smashes its way through my body, a giant lumbering beast. Was Andrew in my house? Did he read this e-mail?

  It’s impossible. We have an alarm. But then I remember Sophie dashing back into the house because she forgot something. She probably didn’t set it again.

  I glance down at my desk and see all the notes on my calendar, dates, times, appointments. Then I notice the mail beside my keyboard, bills I’d brought in this morning and dumped on my desk in a scattered pile. Each envelope has been sliced open cleanly and the bills carefully placed one on top of the other. Lined perfectly straight, every edge exact.

  I stand up quickly, push my chair away from me, and step back.

  I grab a nail file from my pencil holder, spin around, and scan my room. The bed. This morning I smoothed it flat, tucked all the corners in tight, but now there’s an indentation on the edge as though someone had sat there. I look at the closet, the shadow under my bed. He could be anywhere. I fumble behind me, find my cell phone.

  “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

  “I think someone’s in my house.”

  * * *

  While I wait for the police, I stay on the phone with the operator and make my way down the stairs, scanning for any movement. In the kitchen I pick up a butcher knife and my car keys, then head for the front door with the knife straight out in front of me. My senses are razor-sharp, the air so heavy I can feel it burning into my lungs. Finally I’m outside, sucking in the cold night air. I don’t have my shoes or a coat. I wrap my arms around my body, run to my car, and climb inside. I lock the doors, blast the heater, and listen for the police sirens.

  One officer searches the house while the other takes my statement. There’s no sign of a forced entry and nothing seems to be missing. They don’t dust my keyboard for fingerprints because apparently they need a smooth surface to get prints. It doesn’t matter. He would have worn gloves. I think of his favorite leather pair that I’d picked out for his birthday one year.

  I can feel the doubt in their polite voices as they make notes, the routine sound to the words. How many times do they get called by nervous ex-wives?