“The peace bond will give us more to work with, but we still have to catch him violating the bond before we can actually arrest him.”
I nod again, trying to look calm, but inside I’m a mess of emotions—mostly terror. I’ve seen a few women from our group go through this process. One woman’s ex-husband set her house on fire the day they walked out of court. Sure, he was arrested the next day, but she was almost killed, and lost everything she owned, including her two cats who died in the fire.
“He’s going to be furious.”
“If you ever feel like you’re in immediate danger, call 911.”
I nod, but I want to ask how long it takes 911 to respond. Five minutes? Ten? How long would it take Andrew to kill me? I watch Parker finish the paperwork, signing her name with a slash.
It’s done. It’s all been set into motion and I can’t stop it now.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
DECEMBER 2005
His breathing had finally leveled, but his arm was still slung over my body. I watched the red glowing numbers change on the clock on the night table. The room was pitch-black except for a sliver of moonlight streaming through a crack in the curtain. If I were to pull it back, I’d see snow tumbling from the sky. It had been falling for hours and should be a peaceful image, the trees wearing their shrouds of white and hunched over like old men, the air quiet as though waiting to be told a secret. It should mean sled rides and winter walks, but I just thought of the roads.
Christmas was only a few days away. Andrew and Sophie had decorated the tree while I made hot chocolate and popcorn and brought it to them, my lips molded into a well-practiced smile. It’s the last one. The last time I’ll have to do this with him.
We stacked presents underneath the tree. Gifts from his associates, neighbors, garnished with ribbons and bows of silver, reds, greens, and blues that reflected the twinkling lights. Sophie played with the tags, read the names out loud, shook the boxes, and guessed at their contents.
We wouldn’t be there to unwrap any of them.
I eased my body to the side of the bed, held my breath as his arm slipped off my torso. For a moment his hand drifted across my breast and I shivered, but finally it slid off and landed on the mattress. I stayed still for a couple of minutes beside the bed, ready to make excuses—I was going to the bathroom, getting a glass of water, checking on Sophie—but he didn’t move. I took shallow breaths, my eyes focused on the dark shadow of his face, the hollows of his eyes. I could smell the whiskey on his breath and skin. He’d been drinking it straight, hadn’t even bothered with ice.
When he’d gotten too drunk to move from the couch, he asked me to pour him one. The moment I’d been waiting for. “Sure,” I said. “I just have to go to the bathroom first.”
I stood in the bathroom for what felt like hours with the bottle of pills in my hand, but it was probably only a couple of minutes. I kept reading the label with Chris’s name on it. He hadn’t had any problem getting his doctor to write him a prescription for sleeping pills.
This was the plan, I reminded myself. Andrew had to stay asleep. I carefully removed the cotton from inside the bottle, tapped three small blue pills out into my palm, and stared at them. How much had Andrew drunk? Would three kill him? If I didn’t give him enough, he could wake up. Then he’d kill me. I needed to get back to the kitchen soon, but I still hesitated.
A noise in the other room, a soft thud. I flushed the toilet, put one pill back, and shoved the bottle into my housecoat pocket. Two would have to be enough.
I slipped down the hallway into the kitchen, glanced into the living room. Andrew was still on the couch, muttering something about the “fucking remote.” I poured his drink. My hand hovered over the rim of the glass, then I dropped the pills, let them settle to the bottom, and stirred it until there wasn’t a trace of power. I took a sip, testing. All I could taste was whiskey.
I went back to the living room, handed Andrew his drink, then sat down and waited. Twenty minutes later, he began to lean toward the edge of the couch, his eyes drooping. I suggested we go to bed and helped him walk down the hallway. It was done.
Now my feet padded across the floor and into the laundry room, where I stood on the stool and reached up into the ceiling panel. I took down the tote bags one by one, careful not to drop them. I’d packed the bare minimum over the last week. Not enough for him to notice. Sophie would be upset that we had to leave most of her toys behind, but we’d bring her favorite doll and stuffed elephant—she was sleeping with them now. I’d make it up to her somehow.