Chapter 22
22
“Let me go!”
I scream as loud as I can, even though I know full well the only house besides Mitch’s is miles away. Nobody will hear me. Nobody is coming.
Like I said, nobody can hear you scream around here.
Mitch laughs. His breath stinks of alcohol even worse than his clothes. I should never have let him in. What was I thinking? I thought it would be okay because he’s my neighbor, and I was worried about Sadie. And even now, as he tightens his grip and the bones of my forearm grind together, I’m worried about Sadie. What did he do to her when he found out she came to our house? I’ve got to make sure she’s okay.
But I don’t know how I’m going to do that when this man is about to break my arm in two. And that’s all he’ll do to me if I’m lucky.
“What the hell is going on here?”
Instantly, the pressure on my wrist eases up. I hadn’t even noticed the sound of my husband’s heavy boots on the carpeting in our foyer. He’s tracked mud all over our carpet, but I couldn’t care less, because I’ve never been happier to see Hank. He’s standing over Mitch, towering over the other man by several inches, looking like he wants to smash his face in.
Even in his drunken haze, Mitch knows enough to be afraid of my husband. He retreats by a few steps. “Your wife is nosing around in our business. I just came over to tell her to stay the hell away.”
Hank cracks his knuckles, and the sound resonates through the living room. Mitch looks like he’s about to tinkle in his pants, and I can’t say I don’t enjoy it.
“You listen to me,” Hank says in the low growl of a pit bull about to pounce. “I don’t want to ever see you in my house again. I don’t want to ever see you within ten feet of my wife again. Do you understand?”
Mitch opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.
Hank’s eyes darken, and he steps in front of Mitch, blocking any chance of escape. “ Do you understand? Because if you don’t, we’ve got a big problem here, Mitch.”
My husband is not a violent man by nature, but that rule doesn’t apply when it comes to protecting me. When we were married barely a year, he smashed a man’s nose at a bar for getting fresh with me, and he ended up spending two months in prison for assault. It was a miserable two months for him—something he’s not eager to ever repeat—but he still means business right now. He would still break every bone in Mitch’s body if he did anything to truly hurt me.
“Yes.” Mitch’s voice is now a wheeze. “Yeah, I got it.”
“Good. Now say you’re sorry for scaring Polly.”
“Sorry, Polly,” he mumbles. “Sorry, Hank.”
Hank steps away from the door, allowing Mitch to scramble back outside. I doubt Mitch will cause any trouble for us again. Unfortunately, I don’t know if the same is true for Sadie. If Mitch couldn’t hurt me, will he take it out on her? I make a mental note to find a way to check on her tomorrow.
Hank slams the door shut behind Mitch. He throws the lock and then turns to look at me. Not surprisingly, there’s a deep groove between his thick brown eyebrows.
“Polly,” he says, “didn’t I tell you to stay away from them?”
“Yes.” I rub at my wrist. Tomorrow, there will be bruises on it, as dark as the ones on Sadie’s arm. “But she came here to see me. What was I supposed to do?”
He shakes his head slowly. “You tell her to go home. That’s what you do.”
“But—”
“You tell her to go home, Polly.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “From now on, that’s what you do.”
“But he’s hurting her!” Tears leap into my eyes at the thought of what he does to that little girl. What kind of justice is there in the world if a man like that has a beautiful, wonderful daughter who he doesn’t even care about? “He’s hurting her, and we’re not even going to do anything about it?”
Hank looks at me for a long time, and I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully. “Polly, we called Child Protective Services. They investigated. It’s none of our business.”
“But—”
“ It’s none of our business .”
“But, Hank, how could you turn away a little girl who needs our help?”
My husband heaves a sigh. He brushes past me and sinks into the living room sofa, which grunts under his weight. He always sits in the same spot, and now there’s a permanent Hank-shaped indentation in the cushion.
“Polly.” He looks up at me. “What if I hadn’t come home now? What if I had been working late? What would have happened to you?”
Hank is staring up at me, and it hits me at this moment that my six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound husband is scared. He’s scared of what would’ve happened if he hadn’t come home when he did. He’s scared of what might happen the next time.
“Okay,” I finally say. “I’ll stay away from them.”
Hank holds out his arms, and I fall into his lap, wrapping my arms around his thick neck. Hank means well. He’s the best man I’ve ever met—there’s nobody better. And he would have been a great father. It’s all my fault he’ll never get to experience that.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur into his neck.
He squeezes me tight to his warm body—he radiates heat better than any furnace. “Just stay away from them. That’s all.”
He doesn’t even know what I’m saying sorry for.