Charlotte’s brows lifted. “No? Sounds to me like you might regret a few of the things you said.”
“Are you taking his side?” Elle asked. “Seriously?”
The bell on the door jingled as the beginnings of the lunch crowd started coming in. Charlotte lifted her hand in greeting. “Be right with ya, folks.” She then turned her attention back to Elle. “I’m not taking anyone’s side. Jeb Monroe is a son of a bitch and what you and Gabe are going through because of Jeb’s bullshit has me ready to march up to his front door and punch that bastard right in the balls.”
Elle laughed, getting a mental image of her aunt nailing Monroe in his family jewels. She had no doubt Charlotte could’ve made the man sing soprano without any difficulty, too.
“But,” Charlotte continued, “my point is I love you and Gabe both and want you to be happy. The way I see it, your chances at happiness are better if you’re fighting against Monroe and not each other.”
Elle sighed. “I know. I just…I want this to work, Charlotte. I love him. I’m in love with him. But he can’t keep treating me like I’m helpless.”
“Well, I think you made that pretty clear,” Charlotte told her. “Now maybe it’s time to give him the chance to prove he got the message.”
Elle glanced at her phone. Charlotte was right. As usual. Maybe Elle was avoiding calling Gabe. But her phone hadn’t exactly been ringing off the hook either. “If he calls, I’ll talk to him.”
“And if he doesn’t call?” Charlotte prompted.
Elle shrugged. “He invited us to Kyle and Abby’s tonight for dinner. I’m still going—they’re my friends, regardless of what’s going on with Gabe and me. I’ll just talk to him then.”
Charlotte shook her head and grabbed her notepad and pen to go take her customers’ orders. “Sometimes it takes a little courage to set aside pride and be the first to apologize, baby girl,” she said. “Doesn’t make him any less wrong for what he did or what he said. Just means you’re opening the door for him to come crawling in on his knees.”
Elle laughed again, earning a good-humored wink from her aunt. Then she picked up her phone and purse, stuffed a twenty into her aunt’s tip jar when she was sure Charlotte wasn’t watching, then headed out front to call a cab to take her home.
But before she could place a call, her phone began to ring. She glanced at the number, not recognizing it. Frowning, she answered, “Hello?”
“Ms. McCoy?”
Elle’s frown deepened. The voice was soft, hoarse, as if the woman on the other end was whispering. “Yes. Who’s this?”
“Janice Monroe.”
Elle’s blood turned to ice water in her veins. Jeb Monroe’s wife. She’d never spoken to Mrs. Monroe, had only seen her in the courtroom during Derrick’s trial, her eyes red and swollen, her slight frame curled forward in sorrow and hopelessness. “Mrs. Monroe,” Elle said. “How did you get this number?”
She hesitated a moment before answering, “My husband has the addresses and phone numbers of everyone who works for the county. He’s had them for quite some time.”
Elle’s mind raced with the implications of what she’d just heard. “How did he get that kind of information?”
“I don’t know,” Janice stammered. “I just know he does.”
Elle pressed her lips together in frustration. The woman knew more than she was admitting, but she kept her voice level when she said, “Mrs. Monroe, you shouldn’t be calling me. I’m sorry, but—”
“Please don’t hang up!” the woman cried. Her voice cracked pitifully when she added, “I…I need your help.”
Elle’s grip on her phone tightened. Gabe had thought Monroe’s daughter was on the verge of talking. Maybe his wife was eager to talk as well. The poor woman sounded terrified. “Call the police. I’m sure they can assist you.”
“He’ll kill me if I go to the police,” Janice told her. “I need you to go to them for me.”
Elle pressed the heel of her palm against her eyes. Great. She was half-popped from tequila and Janice Monroe wanted her to call the cops for her. “Mrs. Monroe, could you meet me somewhere in about an hour? Somewhere public, of your choosing. I’ll help you if I can, but I’m unable to drive at the moment.”
There was hesitation on the other end of the line before Janice finally said, “I’ll try. I have a concussion, I think. He hit me—Jeb did. And…oh my God, my God—my baby girl!” She began to sob. “What he did to my baby girl!”
The fear and anguish in the woman’s voice made Elle’s blood boil with outrage. Women like Janice Monroe were exactly the kinds of victims Elle assisted through her work at the foundation, the very women she had vowed to protect and help wherever and however she could. The woman was desperate. If anyone needed Elle at the moment, it was Janice Monroe.