The officer (I remember now her first name is Dana) comes downstairs with her fingerprint kit. She’s already taken mine so she can compare them and has dusted my purse and the closet door, but she wasn’t able to get anything. She sits on the other side of the couch.
“I got a few off the windowsill. I’ll do some comparisons at the station later.” I already know, if she didn’t find anything in the rest of the house, she won’t find anything on the window.
“Did you talk to Mrs. Carlson? She must be so worried.” And scared. I hate thinking that Andrew caused her beautiful bird to die. What will she think of me now?
“She’s on her way back and will let me know if anything’s missing.” She glances at her watch. “I’ll meet her here in a couple of hours.”
“Can I leave now?”
“Just a few more questions, if you don’t mind.” Her voice is still casual, but her eyes are intent. “You said your ex-husband was released from prison recently. What was he in for?”
“Impaired driving causing death.” The officer is still watching me, her eyes narrowed like she’s waiting for me to get to the point, but I’m having a hard time speaking, all the memories flooding back. “He hit another driver and she died. They found a gun in his truck. He told the cops he wanted to kill me.” He’d been given ten years, the maximum sentence. Many offenders only serve two-thirds, but finally his temper worked in my favor. He refused to join any programs, never showed remorse, and got in so many fights he kept getting denied parole. After seven years, he would have been eligible for statutory release, but then he stabbed a man in prison, nearly killing him. He claimed self-defense, so he wasn’t charged, but he ended up having to serve his whole sentence.
“Have you heard from him since he was released?”
“No, but you don’t understand. He plays mind games. He would do this to scare me.” My body is breaking out in a sweat and I feel cold all over. I want a thick blanket, a hot bath.
“I’ll check into his whereabouts.”
“I’m not making this up.” I hear the defensive tone in my voice and know I sound hostile, but her expression doesn’t change. “He was here. I know he was.”
“I understand you’re afraid of him,” she says. “But, unfortunately, without evidence of an actual crime or proof he was in the house, I can’t do anything.” Her face is sincere, and I get the feeling she actually does believe me, but it’s not bringing me much comfort at the moment.
“Then what can I do? How can I protect myself?”
“You could apply for a section 810 peace bond, but the Crown will want more evidence that he’s a threat to your safety. If your ex-husband is the one who moved your keys, it’s creepy, but not necessarily threatening.”
“Is that a restraining order?”
“Similar, yes. If you want a protection order, that’s usually granted in family court at the time of your divorce. The peace bond is more of a preventive order. He has to agree to the terms in court and he could fight it. Then it will fall on you to prove why it’s necessary.”
“So I have to wait until he does something really bad.”
“If you do feel he’s becoming a definite threat, give me a call and I’ll help you through the process.” She writes something on the back of another business card, passes it to me. “And if you remember anything else about today, please call me. My cell number is on the back.”
As she walks me to the door I realize that Atticus’s box is sitting on the counter. “I was supposed to bury her bird.”
“It’s raining pretty hard out there now.”
“I said I would do it.” I pick up the box and hold it tight against my chest.
“How about you leave him with me?”
Right. So she can toss him out the window of her car as she drives down the highway? “Thanks, but I know that Mrs. Carlson would feel more comfortable knowing I took care of this for her.” I grab my purse and walk toward the door before she can stop me.
She watches from the back porch as I march to the garden shed and drag the shovel toward the lilac bushes. I stab at the ground, use my foot to jam the shovel into the hard earth. The cold rain is blowing into my face and my hair is getting soaked, icy rivulets dripping down my neck, but I can’t stop. My breath heaves out of me. Come on, come on. I get a chunk of dirt up and toss it to the side. Footsteps come up beside me.
“Are you sure you don’t—”
A clod lands near her feet and she neatly sidesteps, doesn’t say anything else while I dig the hole and place the box inside, scraping dirt back over with my hands.
I stand straight and take some breaths. I don’t look at the officer. I close my eyes, bow my head, and say a prayer for Atticus. Then I say a prayer for Sophie and me.
CHAPTER FIVE
NOVEMBER 1998