39
When you finally confront the fact that you have no choice but to leave, you will contemplate how best to fit your life into your car. You know that all you really need is your children—they are your life, even more so now than ever before. And yet, you want them to have what will make them happy, what will make them whole. It will not be easy on them, you know. How can they understand the reasons when you don’t comprehend how you got to this point yourself?
Feeling sentimental, you will take something of your own mother. You haven’t thought of her enough these years. Being forced to live in survival mode does that—it consumes you. It makes you a shitty daughter, sister, friend.
You’ll need just enough familiarity to help the kids not feel completely displaced: favorite pajamas, blankets, a few toys. And then there’s your daughter’s I Can Do It! nothing more than a scrap of cardboard, but one she has cherished, one that has made her brave. At times you’ve wished for such a talisman yourself.
“It’s for babies!” She’ll lash out, surprising you. Then comes the root of it: “Stephie and Andrea say it’s for babies.” Her friends at school. She won’t even have these friends come tomorrow, won’t likely see them ever again, but how can you tell her that?
You’ll pack it anyway, in your own bag. She will see it just as you’re zipping it closed. She will hurl it in frustration through the open doorway of her room. “I don’t want it!” she’ll scream. She is four, but she might as well be fourteen. You have no choice. You have to go. The designated point of no return has arrived.
By the time you cross state lines, she’ll be crying for it again. “We have to go back,” she’ll sob. “We have to go back for it.”
But you’ll keep your hands on the wheel of this unfamiliar preowned van you’ve paid cash for to replace your own—a switch made with surprising ease. Far from any town, the promise of silence comes at a bargain price. Your eyes will not waver from the road ahead. Because you can’t go back. And this is what you have sacrificed: a tattered piece of your daughter’s childhood for survival. You already know your search for a replacement will be futile, but it doesn’t matter. You can’t do it over, you can’t turn the car around, you can only move on. If you go back, he will kill you.
40
There’s no shortage of safety gear on the market, but you’ll find that the two things most likely to save your life are free: common sense (or at least the good sense to remain calm and trust your instincts), and the buddy system.
—Introduction to the final chapter in the Outdoor Preparedness guide gifted to Izzy by her father, flagged by her mother with a sticky note bearing a single exclamation point
Izzy stared at the metal shape at Paul’s feet, identical to the one clenched in her palm, as comprehension wrestled with confusion. So the other one had gone missing the afternoon Paul helped her install the lock. She’d convinced herself it had never existed at all.
Or, rather, she’d let him convince her.
An icy fear gripped her, but she pushed it aside. She was on her own. She couldn’t afford to be afraid.
“Where did you get that?” she snapped.
“I found it—” He was stammering lies before she even had the question out. The truth was obvious: He had pocketed it, back then.
Even then.
But why?
Her mind conjured the beginning of his Second Date Update call—the part that had struck her as odd for exactly one instant before she’d gotten caught up in the rest.
I saw her leaving for work and I thought … what the hell, why not call.
She left for work so very early. This time of year, that hour was more night than morning.
“I’m returning it,” he said lamely. He stooped to pick up the key, and she pocketed her own, expecting him to hold it out toward her—but he didn’t.
She took a small step back toward the kitchen, then another.
If she turned and ran, could she beat him to the door?
But what if this was some kind of misunderstanding? There she’d be, fleeing in panic from a harmless neighbor, exposing herself as silly, helpless, hopeless. He did keep odd hours. He was on call at a hospital, after all. Briefly and ridiculously, she wondered how many people met their demise out of politeness.
“What are you doing here?” she repeated. Her voice shook.
And then, to her horror, he seemed to come to. To assess the situation, to regain control. His whole demeanor of slinking away, of fading in, changed as if he’d flipped a switch, and instead he took a step toward her, then another.
“I was out for a walk,” he said, his voice low. “I guess I got to thinking.”
She swallowed hard, waiting for him to elaborate. He didn’t. “About?”
“This and that. A bit about how you changed your mind after agreeing to our date. A bit about how you lied, about your dad being sick.” He advanced another step; she continued her slow retreat. “A bit about how Detective Bryant was kissing your hand out front this afternoon.”
So he had overheard her in the store. But he had the wrong idea about the detective.
Had he been watching her—again? Or had he just happened to see—again?
And why should any of it matter? What business was it of his?
“That doesn’t answer my question,” she said as firmly as she could. He took another step toward her, and as she retreated reflexively, her ankle turned on the paver behind her. She wobbled, then caught her balance, and he didn’t bother to hide his smirk.
“I don’t really know. I just … ended up here.” He was so clearly in the wrong—nothing about this was right, none of it was okay—and yet he didn’t move to apologize, didn’t move to leave.
“If you wanted to talk, Paul, you could have rung the doorbell.”
He closed the gap between them, and his eyes were dark. “I don’t want to talk.”
A final step back and she made contact with the cold siding of the house, jagged against her spine through the too-thin barrier of her coat and nightshirt. She glanced to her left. The back door was several strides away. She had not retreated wisely.
“Then what do you want?” It was impossible to keep the terror from her voice now. He hesitated, his eyes unchanging, and she could see that he had no plan, and then, just as quickly, that he didn’t seem to mind—that acting on passion rather than logic was not a new side to him, but a second skin.
He laughed mirthlessly. “I will never understand women. My mother never recognized that she could have done so much better than my father. Kristin never recognized that she couldn’t have hoped for better than me. What’s the happy medium? Does it exist? Because I thought you were different, but now I see that you’re just the same.”
Izzy glanced sidelong at the door again. There was no graceful escape from this wall she’d been backed into, but she had to try. “I am sorry. But we’ll talk about this in the morning, when you aren’t so upset. Good night, Paul.”
She whipped around and made for the handle as quickly as she could without downright lunging. She supposed a small corner of her mind was still keeping up the appearance of civility. She reached out, visualizing how she would yank it open and then slam the door shut before he could push his way in after her. But she didn’t get that far. Hands grabbed her shoulders roughly from behind and slid expertly down her arms until Paul had her at the joints, his fingers closing easily and completely around her thin elbows.
“You are sorry?” He yanked her against him, and she cringed at the firmness of his chest against her back. Had he always been so much larger than her, so much stronger? “Why do you all seem to think you can let me in, lead me on, and then be rid of me so easily?”