“Don’t,” I beg.
He turns his head slightly, keeping his gaze fixed on the insane lady pointing a gun at us, and says, “It’s okay, baby. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” I want to scream at him, I’m not worried about me, I’m worried about you, but before I can respond, Dusty rounds the front of the house, creeping quietly so he doesn’t alert Mrs. Jenson he’s sneaking up on her.
Connor stops trying to approach her and instead attempts to keep her busy until Dusty can get closer. In the distance, police sirens blare, but they’re still a good distance away. She could easily fire off a few rounds in seconds. “Why don’t you put the gun down and let’s talk about this,” Connor wages.
“Move out of the way,” Mrs. Jenson orders, wagging the gun to indicate what she wants. “It’s her I’m after.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Connor replies, his voice direct and stern. He doesn’t even seem nervous. How is that possible?
Dusty is directly behind Mrs. Jenson now, and he gives a nod to Connor letting him know he’s about to grab her. Dusty is on her left side, so when Connor whips his head to her right as if he sees something, she reacts by turning that way which gives Dusty the opportunity to grab her and Connor a chance to sprint in and help.
It all happens so fast. When Dusty tackles her, it’s a blur of grunts and tattoos, and an old woman crying in pain. Connor moves in to aide and in the span of mere seconds, just before Connor reaches her, her gaze meets mine dead on, a sort of calm almost washing over her despite the fact she’s being taken to the ground. The look rocks me to my core. It speaks volumes.
She has nothing left to lose, and I . . . I have everything to lose.
Then two shots ring out.
The courtroom is silent. Every once in a while someone coughs or adjusts in their seats causing the old wooden benches to creak. I’ve been on the stand for forty-five minutes now. Mrs. Jenson’s defense attorney is a real dick, but now the prosecutor is up, and he’s digging into me, really making me relive every single moment of that horrific day.
I knew this was what would happen when it was time for me to testify; I knew I’d be forced to share these brutal memories. I went to the cemetery before I came today, looking to draw strength from two of the best people I’ve ever known. But seeing two Stevens’ headstones, side-by-side brought me no solace. I ended up dropping to my knees, sobbing as I gripped a headstone with each hand. I’ve always considered myself a strong woman, but the last few years have humbled me. I’ve been scarred emotionally, and I find myself terrified of losing another loved one.
“Demi, tell me what happened after the shooting,” Michael Harris, the prosecutor says.
“Connor was in a lot of pain. Dusty had me press my hands over one of the gunshot wounds while he held the other.”
Just hang on man. The paramedics will be here soon, Dusty assured Connor.
Look at me, baby. Keep your eyes on me, I begged him as he struggled to breathe, his injuries paining him.
“By the time the paramedics arrived, there was so much blood . . . I just knew he was going to die. I just knew there was no way someone could bleed that much and live.” I clear my throat and inhale deeply, doing my best to keep from getting emotional. I don’t tell him how when I saw that first medic I felt some hope. I had to hope even though I knew the worst was yet to come. As soon as Connor found out they weren’t going to let me ride in the ambulance with him, he flipped out, fighting his restraints, hurting himself more. He refused to go without me.
“She can follow behind us,” the young medic said as he tried to hold Connor down. “Please sir, you’re worsening your injuries.”