Too Late

He stands up and looks around the room. I can see the veins in his neck bulging as he notices all of Luke’s things. I try to distract him from his own anger.

“There’s a bag in the top of the closet.” I point toward the closet and I see his eyes as they scan the distance from the bed to the living room. He walks toward the closet and slams the bedroom door shut as he passes. His way of letting me know that I better not even try to run.

I take in my physical posture on the bed and realize that it looks like I’m poised to jump at any second. I’m not being convincing enough.

I lie back on my pillow and try to look relaxed. He walks out of the closet and scans me, smirking. He likes that I didn’t try to run. He’s letting down his own guard.

“So fucking beautiful, love,” he says, tossing the bag onto the bed. “What do you want me to pack?” He looks around the room. His eyes fall to the dresser—at the picture of me and Luke. I printed it out a week ago and framed it. I can see the roll in Asa’s throat. “Excuse me for a second,” he says, walking toward the bedroom door.

“Where are you going?” I ask, sitting up on the bed. He opens the door and walks into the living room.

“I left Jesus-on-a-stick near the window. I need Him.”

What the fuck?

He’s back before I can process what he said, and he’s holding something in his hand.

“Is that a crucifix?”

What in the hell?

He smiles with his nod, and then he brings the crucifix up over his head with both hands, and then straight down again, right on top of the framed picture on the dresser. I flinch with the first blow, but he bashes the cross against the frame, over and over, until it’s in a dozen tiny pieces.

I’m absolutely terrified. But I force myself to laugh. I don’t know how. Every part of me wants to scream out in terror right now, but I know that’s the last thing I need to do. I’m playing a part, and that character needs to laugh for Asa, because he needs to know that I have no feelings for that picture frame.

He glances at me and enjoys the smile on my face. He grins from ear to ear, so I point at the nightstand. “There’s one over there, too.”

His gaze falls on the other picture frame, and he glides across the room. He swings the crucifix like it’s a bat, knocking the picture off the nightstand and straight into the wall. Even knowing it was coming, I still flinch. I cringe at the amount of hatred he has for Luke.

This entire time, I’ve been silently praying that Luke will miraculously come home early. But now I’m praying he doesn’t, because I’m not sure any man can withstand the person Asa is right now. He’s completely irrational. He’s void of compassion, of empathy. He’s delusional. He’s dangerous. And I’d rather get Asa out of this apartment and be forced to accompany him, than to have him here when Luke returns home.

Asa looks around the room. When he doesn’t see anything else that makes him vengeful, he tosses the crucifix on the bed. “When does Luke get home?”

He knows when Luke gets home.

I could lie and say he’ll be home any minute, but if Asa somehow knew our address, then he more than likely already knows our every move. He knows Luke gets home at six every night.

“Six,” I say to him.

He nods. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks the time. “It’s gonna be a long wait,” he says. “What do you want to do for the next few hours?”

Wait...what?

“We’re waiting for him?”

He drops down onto the bed next to me. “Of course we are, Sloan. I didn’t come all this way to take back my girl and not get revenge on the bastard who stole her from me.”

He somehow says all this with a smile on his face.

Once again, I swallow my fear. “We could eat lasagna. If I don’t take it out of the oven in the next two minutes, it’ll be inedible.”

Asa leans over me and presses a kiss to my mouth, making a loud pop when he pulls back. “Fucking genius, babe.” He scoots off the bed and pulls me up. “I’m starving. You can put your clothes back on if you want.”

He lets go of my hands and walks into the bathroom. He leaves the door open and he watches me the whole time he stands over the toilet. I put my clothes back on, trying to stop my hands from shaking too noticeably. He flushes the toilet and walks back into the bedroom, toward the living room. “I was just kidding earlier,” he says. “I don’t hate your lasagna. I feel really bad for saying that, I was just really upset with you.”

I walk past him and stand on my tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “I know, baby. We all say things we don’t mean when we’re angry.”

I walk into the kitchen. The lasagna has been in the oven way longer than I intended for it to be, but I don’t think it’s burnt yet. It just won’t make for very good pictures for the cookbook.

I laugh as soon as I have that thought.

Seriously? My life is in fucking danger and I’m thinking about a stupid cookbook?

I walk into the kitchen, but Asa isn’t far behind me. I’m sure he’s on my heels because he’s not convinced I won’t go for a knife. He’s smart, because if he wasn’t a step behind me, I’d absolutely go for one. I grab the empty boxes of ingredients strewn across the counter and toss them toward the trash, but as soon as I do, I see there’s no trash bag lining the can.

That’s because I took the trash out of the can.

I look at the trash bag, tied at the top, sitting next to the empty trashcan.

I look at the empty trashcan.

My pulse begins to race and I do everything I can to hide it.

I forgot the fucking trash!

Calm down, calm down, calm down. I grab an oven mitt and I pull the oven door open. I set the pan of lasagna down on top of the stove. Asa reaches over my shoulder and opens a cabinet to grab a couple of plates. He kisses the top of my head in the process. He grabs a spatula and cuts into the lasagna, refusing to bring a knife into the equation. The whole time he cuts at the lasagna, I’m staring at the empty trashcan.

I didn’t take out the trash.





I look at my phone again.

“You aren’t listening,” Ryan says, bringing my attention back to him.

“I’m listening.” I set my phone on the table, face up. I stare at it and pretend to be listening to Ryan, but he’s right. I’m not.

“What the hell, Luke?” He snaps his fingers. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

I shake my head. “Nothing, it’s just...” I don’t even want to say it out loud, because I’ll sound like an idiot. The measures Sloan and I have gone to just to feel safe are ridiculous, even by my standards. “It’s five after.”

Ryan leans back in his seat and takes a sip of his drink. We’re at some pizza joint just a few miles from my apartment, discussing what we always discuss when we meet: Asa’s case. He goes to trial in a few short months and I’ll be damned if we don’t do everything we can to make this as cut and dry as possible. The longer he’s sentenced and the more he’s convicted of, the better off Sloan will be.

“It’s five after what?” Ryan asks.

“Twelve o’clock. Six after, now.” I look at my phone. It’s 12:06 and Sloan hasn’t taken out the trash yet.

Ryan leans forward. “Please elaborate, because you’re really starting to piss me off with how not present you’ve been in our conversation.”

“That guy who does daytime surveillance...Thomas...he always texts me right at noon to let me know Sloan took the trash out. She puts it outside the door every day at noon so I’ll know everything is okay.”

I pick up the phone and begin texting Thomas.

“Why don’t you just call and check up on her?” Ryan asks, as if that’s the most obvious answer.

“This is extra protection. If something happens and someone is with her, they could force her to answer the phone and pretend everything is okay. We do other things aside from phone calls for added reassurance.”

Ryan stares at me a moment after I hit send on the text. I know he thinks I’m being overly paranoid right now, but surely he can’t blame me. Asa is fucking psychotic and unpredictable. I’m not sure anyone could ever be too safe when it comes to him.

“That’s actually pretty genius,” Ryan says.

“I know,” I say, getting ready to dial Sloan’s number. “It was her idea. And so far, she’s never missed a single day. She sets the trash out like clockwork.” I bring the phone to my ear and wait while it rings. She’s never not answered her phone.

I wait.

She doesn’t answer her phone. Right when it goes to voicemail, I get a text from the surveillance guy.

Still waiting. Trash hasn’t been taken out yet.

My fucking heart falls straight to the floor. Ryan sees it. He stands up at the same time I do. “I’ll call for backup,” he says, tossing money onto the table. I’m out the door before I can respond. I’m in my car. I’m cussing traffic and honking my horn and doing everything I can to get there.

Four minutes.

Four fucking excruciating minutes.

That’s how long it’s going to take me to get there.

I dial a number and hit send on my phone.

“Yeah?” he says.

“Is it out yet? Did she put the fucking trash out yet?” I’m trying to remain calm, but I can’t.