I walked slowly out of my room and across the den, watching out the windows for the demon. In the dining room, I grabbed my phone and Hope’s from the table. On hers I called 911 and dialed Ivana on mine immediately after.
“My ex-husband is outside trying to get in my house,” I told the dispatcher. “I have a restraining order, and he’s told me he’s going to kill me.”
“Is anyone else in the house?” she asked, sounding bored.
There was no way to explain his insanity to her without sounding insane myself. “My three kids are here. He has schizophrenia.” It was the first time I had said that to anyone but my mom. It sounded scarier out loud.
“Stay on the line while I dispatch a car. Officers will be there as soon as they can.” She confirmed my name and his, then repeated my address twice.
“He’s at the dining-room window, looking in at me,” I whispered, walking sideways with my back tight to the wall until I could turn the corner to the den.
“Where are your children?” she asked.
“Hiding.” I took a deep breath. “I have a gun. Tell the officers I have a gun. It’s loaded.”
I heard her calling it in, sending help my way. She wasn’t bored anymore, and I could tell from how fast she was talking that she believed like I did that no one could get to me in time.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I looked around the doorway into the dining room. He was jabbing the tip of a foot-long, curved knife against the window. That knife could break the window with no real effort, but he wasn’t breaking anything, just tapping, just teasing, just wrapping his fingers around my throat and holding me under the water. Deep in the river. Anytime he wanted to, he could. He could kill me … but not only me.
He moved to the front door, tried the knob, and then moved on to the office window.
Tap. Tap-a-tap. Tap.
Around and around the house he went, tapping and teasing. I had seen the horns, curved beast horns that looked more demon than devil. They looked like real antler-type material, and I couldn’t imagine where he’d bought them. He was wearing a black shirt, a button-down that had once made him look suave instead of satanic, and red leggings that might have been Ivana’s.
I remembered I’d dialed her and lifted that phone to my ear. The 911 phone was on the sofa. “Ivana? Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here. I wish you wouldn’t have called the police. I asked you not to. And good God, Cara. You have a gun? Do you really? I’m in Little Rock. I’m on my way, but I’m in Little Rock.” Her voice rose and cracked. She was crying.
“He’s tapping on my windows with a knife, Ivana. And he’s dressed like a demon, wearing tights and horns. If I have to shoot him, I will.”
She let out a little cry, like a puppy whimper. “Shoot him in the leg. Please, Cara. If you have to, just shoot him in the leg.”
I hung up the phone. Not because of what she said, but because of the images in my head. I knew beyond any doubt that I wouldn’t shoot him in the leg. I would shoot him over and over in every vital organ. I would put more bullets in the gun and shoot him again. I wouldn’t stop shooting him until someone made me.
Something bumped my elbow, made me jump, and I swung around to see Hope staring up at me. Her eyes were haunted and dark, stretched wide with shock. I had no idea how long she had been there, what she had heard. Maybe she had been there all along, ignoring my directive to hide with Drew and Jada.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Please don’t shoot him.” Her words fell flat, deflated before I even tried to punch them down. “Just don’t,” she said. No passion, no power. She was empty of all those things, and I wondered if the overload of trauma and insanity would leave her cup forever perforated, leaking trust and security. Or if someday she would be able to hold good things again without the terror that everything could fall apart at any second, without wondering if Mommy would have to hold a man at gunpoint and weigh the consequences of not shooting.
The tapping moved to my bedroom window. I didn’t go in there to watch him through the glass. The shades were pulled. It was dark in there. If he made it into the house, I wanted to face him in the light. I stayed in the den, back against the side of the staircase, Hope at my elbow whispering things I didn’t have the ears to process.
“This has to end.” It barely sounded like my voice. It held less power than Hope’s.
The 911 phone was talking to me, so I picked it up and turned to the back door. He stood there watching us through the glass French doors. The knife tip was as red as his leggings. With almost no effort he could break that glass and step right through. I pointed the gun at him, made sure he saw it. He held up the knife. A challenge. A draw.
I didn’t move. It wasn’t like there was any place to hide. Not really. No place to go. “Are they here yet?” I asked the 911 dispatcher.
“Thought I’d lost you,” she said. “I have two cars on the way, but they were across town. It’s going to be a little while yet. Hold on. Stay calm.”
I closed my eyes, wanting to keep them that way for a long time. I didn’t want to see Adam, and I didn’t want to see what I might have to do.
“Go upstairs,” I said. But I never turned to see if Hope listened or stayed to be my whispering conscience. If I listened to her, we would both regret it one day. The next time he came looking for his lost mind in our house, we would regret keeping the bullets clean and whole.
He tapped the window again, and I realized it was Morse code, but I refused to translate the dots and dashes. I opened my eyes and put the phone down. I didn’t need the nervous lady anymore. She had done her best to help me and failed.
I took a long step toward the door and felt strength rising up through the heels of my feet, coursing through my veins with the power of every woman who had ever stood like I stood, with no one else to lean on, no one to help. I felt their power all the way to the top of my head and the tips of my fingers. Yes, even the finger that was curved around the chipped, black trigger of Karma.
For a second, or maybe longer, I thought about shooting him through the door. How much trouble would I get in, and could I get out of it? My kids would be safe. No matter what happened to me, they would be safe. Was it worth it? He was too heavy for me to drag inside without making that obvious, so that was out of the question.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap-a-tap. Tap.
I looked at the deadbolt—not to see if it was locked, I knew it was, but because I was thinking about unlocking it, letting him in so the story would be right for the police.
I wasn’t panicked; I was calm and rational. I was clearheaded enough to know that I didn’t want to do this again, not ever. There was only one way I could guarantee that, and that was if he was dead. I didn’t want to kill him, I just wanted it to end, and there was no other answer. Time moved immeasurably slowly. I imagined what it would look like if I shot him, first in the chest, three times, then in the head if I could manage it before he fell to the floor. I could see what that would look like on the tile, on the painted door.