The Promise of Together (Fisher & Church #3)

Prologue

FORTY-SEVEN YEARS EARLIER

NICK

Justin Hayward faltered mid-lyric, the dulcet tones of The Moody Blues vanishing into the silence of my bedroom.

My headphones landed on my lap and my mother stared down at me, a fresh redness to her cheek, the telltale marks of fingers around her throat.

She caught me looking, flushed, and tugged the collar of her pretty paisley shirt higher. “Get dressed. We’re going out.”

Her clipped tone made me frown. This wasn’t how it went.

When my father exhausted his temper, my mother disappeared into her bedroom for a while.

She came out when my father left for the pub, as he did most nights.

We made hot chocolate and watched television together.

That’s what we did. That’s what we always did.

It didn’t make things better, but it returned something to my mother’s eyes that he took away.

What we didn’t do, what we never did, was go out. And we especially never went out when he’d gone drinking with his mates.

He didn’t like that.

He didn’t like much of what we did.

“Where are we going?” I snapped. “We shouldn’t leave.” I regretted the tone the second the words left my lips. None of this was her fault, after all.

Mum gave a panicked glance over her shoulder. “Not now, Nick, please. Just do as I say and I’ll explain later.”

When I didn’t move, a sharp glint of anger appeared in those warm eyes. It shocked the hell out of me.

I reached for her hand. “Mum? What’s going on?”

“We’re leaving,” she rushed, grabbing my school bag and handing it to me. “Someone is coming to get us. We have to be ready. Get dressed and come downstairs.”

Panic gripped my chest. Images flashed in my brain. My mother on a gurney. A bloody towel. Hospitals, doctors, and lies, lies, lies. The broken recollections of a five-year-old boy.

“But what about Dad?” My arms circled her waist and she cradled my head against her soft belly, fingers threading through my hair.

“It’ll be fine. He won’t be back for a while. I need you to be my strong, brave boy tonight. Can you do that for me?”

I leaned back and looked up, tears blurring her pretty face. “But he’ll be mad, Mum. We can’t go. I don’t want him to be mad. What if he hurts you again? We have to stay. I’ll talk to him, I promise. I’ll ask him not to—”

“No, Nick.” She dropped to her knees, her hands landing on my shoulders. “We can talk about things later, but right now, we’re leaving. I’ve packed you a bag, so all you need to do is get dressed and come downstairs, okay?”

I wanted to argue, to say no, we couldn’t risk it, but the fierce determination in her eyes was something new. And so I nodded, my belly in knots. “Okay.”

She stood and ruffled my hair. “Good boy. Thank you. Now make it quick.”

I donned my favourite pair of jeans, a Marvel T-shirt, shoved my feet into my sneakers, and grabbed a hoodie. Then I headed downstairs to find her waiting at the back door, a backpack in each hand. Just the sight of them terrified me.

“But—” I stared at the backpacks, fear clutching at my chest, alarm bells ringing in my brain. “What about my books? My train set?”

My mother blinked. “Nick, we can’t take everything. I’ll buy you another train set.”

“No.” I took a step back, not even sure why. “Dad gave me that one. Last birthday. Remember? I can’t leave it.” It was the only decent thing he’d ever done for me, other than not physically hit me, of course. He saved that for Mum. Then again, who needed fists when words bit just as hard.

My mother closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead like she was barely holding it together. “Nick, the train set wasn’t . . . your father didn’t . . .” She didn’t finish.

And that’s when I knew. He hadn’t bought the train set at all. My mother had simply put his name on the card. More lies.

She reached for me but I pushed her away. “No! That’s not true! You’re lying!”

My mother shot me a pained look. “Nick. Don’t do this. Please. We have to go.”

But my head was already shaking. “No. He’ll find us. Just like before.”

“He won’t.” She grabbed my hand and hauled me outside and down the steps. “I promise.”

“He will.” I yanked free and backed away. “He will, and then he’ll hurt you and I—”

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

I spun at the sound of my father’s snide tone. He stood just metres away, his sour expression crimson with anger.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Nick?”

Terror glued my tongue to the roof of my mouth. I told her this would happen. I told her.

My father turned to my mother. “How about you? Planning a little trip, were you?” His gaze flicked to the packs, then back to my mother.

“We’re leaving, Travis.” The steel in my mother’s tone was new and definitely dangerous.

My father’s eyes narrowed, a nasty smirk stealing over his mouth. “No, Chloe. You’re not. Get inside. Both of you.”

“Nick, come here.” My mother reached out her hand, but my father stepped between us, his fierce grip around my wrist making me yelp. “Let him go, Travis.” As she tried to step around, he elbowed her sharply in the ribs. She fell back onto the driveway, gasping for air.

“You’re not taking him anywhere.” My father stared down at her. “Nick is my son and he stays here. I warned you, Chloe. If you ever tried to leave again, there’d be consequences.”

My mother’s eyes blew wide and her breath caught. She scrambled to her feet. “Let him go! Right now. I’m leaving, Travis, and I’m taking Nick with me.”

My father snorted. “Don’t be so fucking stupid.” He released my wrist and pushed me toward the house. “Get inside, kid.”

I was too terrified to do anything but obey.

“No, Nick, don’t listen to him,” my mother begged. “Come back. He can’t stop us.”

I hesitated, turning slowly to face my mother. Could it really be that easy? Could I just . . . walk away?

My mother’s expression brightened. “Yes. That’s it. Come on, Nick. We’ll wait next door. He won’t follow us there.”

She was right about that. Cyril had called the police on Dad a few times over the years, not that it had done much good. Dad hated the man but he wouldn’t dare go into his house. Cyril had been a crack shot in his day.

I was leaning forward, ready to take that first step, when my father stepped forward and backhanded my mother across the face, his features contorted in fury.

She fell again to the concrete and I lurched toward her, but my father put out his arm, warning, “Stay where you are.”

“Mum!” I cried brokenly. “Please. Come inside. We’ll be okay. I promise.”

Her gaze met mine as she staggered to her feet. “No, baby. It’s too late. He’ll—”

“You better get inside this instant if you know what’s good for you,” my father growled. “No one’s going anywhere tonight.”

There was a palpable menace in my father’s voice, which was different somehow. I’d never heard him quite so incensed, which was saying something.

“Mum, please.”

But my mother had heard it too. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Nick. I can’t. Not this time. He’ll make me pay for it.” She held my gaze like she was willing me to understand.

Understand what? Pay, how?

For a second, my father looked confused. Like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Then he gathered himself and the look he sent my mother was chilling. “You know what this means, right?” His words cut the air between them like a blade. “You’re done here.”

My mother ignored him, her eyes never leaving mine, fat tears rolling down her face. “I’m sorry, baby. I love you. Trust me.”

“Chloe!” Her name fell like a curse from my father’s lips. He took a step toward her, but the bang of our neighbour’s screen door stopped him in his tracks.

“What’s going on over there?” a thin voice called over the fence.

“Shut up, Cyril,” my father bellowed. “Go back to your TV.”

“I’m calling the police.” Cyril’s door banged shut and my father growled deep in his chest. He scanned the surrounding houses and hissed under his breath, “Chloe, you better get inside right now, or you’ll wish you had. I won’t let him go, you know that.”

With her attention still fixed on me, my mother shook her head. “No. Not this time, Travis.”

Horror washed through me. What did she mean? She wouldn’t . . . she couldn’t . . . she wouldn’t . . . leave me . . . would she?

“Mum?” I begged in a broken whisper. “Please. Stay. Don’t leave me.”

“She’s not going anywhere.” My father wrapped a meaty hand around my mother’s neck and started dragging her toward the house. The roar of an engine stopped him in his tracks, and when he turned to squint at the approaching vehicle, my mother wrenched herself free.

She grabbed a bag and raced for the blue Nissan pulling up in front of our driveway. The driver pushed the passenger door open, and my mother threw her bag inside, then turned to me. She gave a soft cry. “Nick, I have to go. I’m so sorry. I’ll find a way, okay? I’ll find a way.”

“If you show your face here again, you’re dead,” my father growled.

My mother ignored him, her gaze lingering on mine before she said, “I love you, Nick. I’ll always love you.” She jumped into the passenger seat with me still screaming her name.

“Mum! Please,” I begged, sobbing. “Please don’t leave me!” I started running for the car, but my father’s hand clamped around my bicep.

“Let her go.” He spat the words. “We don’t need her.”

And the last I saw of my mother was a frantic, tear-stained face against the window as the blue Nissan drove away.

I thought I heard her crying my name, but as the years passed and she didn’t come back, I told myself I’d been mistaken.