50 Christian
“Hey, love- ”
“Jamie got arrested! They took him to jail!”
Her panic is nearly palpable over the line. I let go of the cart I’m pushing and sprint out of the hardware store. I meant to finish errands hours ago, but my dad called and I stopped by the office first.
When I left, Frankie and Jamie had just been working on the living room. What the fuck could have happened?
“Francesca- where are you?” I ask, my heart hammering
“I-I’m at home… They took him. And this cop wants to talk to me- ”
“Don’t say a word. I’ll be home in ten minutes. Be polite, but don’t fucking say a word!”
I try calling Ryan as I drive, but he doesn’t pick up. He’s in class right now so I leave a rambling voicemail that probably makes no sense.
By the time I get to the house, my heart is in my throat. I spot her sitting stiffly on the porch steps, hands clenched in her lap. A uniformed cop stands nearby, watching her.
“Love,” I call softly, rushing to her side. I kneel down next to her. “Are you okay?”
“I… I think so,” she whispers, shaking. She looks at me and I can see that of her face is red and swollen and my heart stutters to a stop.
What the ever-loving fuck happened? Did Jamie… no. No way he’d hurt her-
“It was Gary,“ she says and it starts to make sense. “He- he just came in. Jamie- he- ”
The cop clears his throat. “Ma’am, can I take your statement now?”
She nods, barely perceptible, and I move to sit beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She’s shaking. I can feel it all the way through me.
She swallows hard, her eyes wide, and recounts everything- the attack, the threats, Jamie coming to her rescue.
She skips most of the history, just calling Gary her estranged stepfather.
Her voice trembles, but she doesn’t waver.
I stay right there, rubbing slow circles into her back, murmuring reassurances under my breath.
“Did anyone other than you see the start of the altercation?” the cop asks.
“What?” I jerk my head up, heat flashing through me. “Why does that matter?”
He looks between us, weighing something. “Well, Mr. Marshall has a fairly extensive criminal history,” he says carefully, “and Mr. Stone does not. If Mr. Marshall is your, uh- boyfriend,” he adds, eyeing me, “that affects credibility.”
That’s it. I stand up and step into his space.
“Officer,” I snap. “This woman has told you she was attacked. You can see her injuries. You have a witness statement from the victim. Why don’t you just fucking believe her and release Jamie?”
He stiffens and takes a step back, then puffs his chest again. “Who are you?”
“Christian Smith, the owner of this house. And her partner.”
His eyes go slightly wide as he glances from me to Francesca. “I’ll be in touch if I need anything further from you, Miss Malone.”
And with that, he turns and leaves.
I sit back down immediately and pull Frankie into my arms. She folds into me like her bones have given up. Across the street, one of the screen doors opens and Jamie’s dad steps onto the porch, lighting a cigarette. He looks our way and grins a bit.
A flare of pure hatred surges through me.
That man never gave Jamie a chance. No hope. No encouragement. No path that didn’t wind straight through pain and crime. I want- desperately- to go beat the shit out of him. But then I’d wind up in jail with Jaime. Instead, I just stare him down and rub Francesca’s back until he looks away.
“Is he… going to be okay?” she whispers.
“They’ll sort it out,” I say, forcing certainty into my voice. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”
My heart twists anyway.
Ryan gets home not long after, panicked by my voice mail and then that I didn’t answer. His tires literally squeal as he slams on the brakes.
We all go to my side of the duplex. Francesca sits on the couch like she’s frozen in place while I fill Ryan in.
“What the fuck?” he says when I finish. “Why would we ever give Gary a fucking dime?”
“It was a toothless threat,” I say. “But I don’t want him knowing where she is. I don’t want him touching her ever again. We are moving tomorrow.”
“Don’t pay him,” she says suddenly. Her eyes are glassy but focused. “Please. Don’t give him anything more.”
“We’re not going to,” I say, pulling her close, but this time my hand presses somewhere new and she flinches.
“Did I hurt you?”
“I hit the coffee table,” she says flatly.
“Baby- can I see?” Ryan asks gently.
She nods, mechanically.
She tugs at the neckline of her sweatshirt, trying to stretch it wide enough, but after a second she gives up and pulls the whole thing off.
She turns her back to us, her arms crossing over her naked chest, and the sight knocks the air out of my lungs.
A large, mottled bruise spreads across her shoulder blade, dark and angry, the center of it broken by a thin, bloodied gash- maybe an inch long. The bruising climbs up over the curve of her shoulder, already deepening in color.
Ryan’s jaw tightens.
I meet his eyes, and for a moment I know we’re thinking the exact same thing.
Murder.
“I need to clean that,” I say, forcing my voice to stay level.
I turn and head for the bathroom, already running through what we have left in the first aid kit, digging through the box I packed the other day- gauze, antiseptic, anything that will work.
She’s leaning into Ryan’s arms on the couch when I return, silently crying while he holds her- careful to avoid her shoulder. I sit behind her and silently clean her back. Once the blood is gone I can see that the cut isn’t too bad. One bandage covers it, but the bruising is just awful.
“He’ll never touch you again,” I vow. “These are the last marks that man will ever leave on you, Francesca. Do you hear me?”
She sniffles and sits up, turning to me and nodding. “Ok,” she says quickly, almost like she doesn’t really believe me.
Ryan stands up and heads down the hallway, returning a minute later with a black sweatshirt of Jamie’s and she smiles while a tear runs down her cheek as she pulls it on.
“He’ll be okay, right?” she asks, her voice small and shaky and it tears me up inside.
“He will be. It’s not the first time that idiot’s gotten arrested,” I say. She chuffs a small laugh and leans into Ryan’s chest.
“Remember when he got picked up on the fourth of July for shooting fireworks?” he asks and I laugh.
“Yeah, that was so stupid. Like, he had the keys to a stolen car in his pocket, but the cops booked him for fucking bottle rockets and roman candles.”
“I was so scared,” Francesca says. “I was convinced he was locked away for life.”
“Gary’s not hurt- not badly. They probably won’t even charge him with simple assault. And they certainly won’t hold him in jail. He’ll be out soon.”
We all just sit there, waiting.
I don’t turn the TV on or get food or anything. It’s like our lives are just suspended while we wait for word from Jamie.
At least an hour goes by and he doesn’t text or call and I’m starting to think about heading down to the station when the front door opens and he walks in.
Francesca looks up, sucks in a breath and is up, off the couch in an instant, crossing the room on unsteady legs before collapsing into him, sobbing.
He looks tired, adrenaline-crashed, with a faint red mark still visible along his jaw. “Hey,” he says immediately, arms wrapping around her, holding her upright. “Hey, hey. I’m here. I’m okay.”
“They took you,” she cries into his chest. “I thought- ”
“It’s no big deal,” he murmurs. “I’m fine.”
He looks up at us over her head. “No charges.”
Ryan exhales sharply. “What happened?”
Jamie snorts, humorless. “Gary couldn’t keep his story straight to save his life. He said I jumped him out of nowhere, then said he was just ‘asking for money,’ then said Frankie attacked him first.”
He shakes his head. “Eventually they just accepted what it was- that he was the aggressor.”
Frankie clutches him harder, like she’s afraid if she lets go he’ll evaporate.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers.
Jamie pulls back just enough to look at her, his hands framing her face gently. “Don’t,” he says firmly. “This is his fault- not yours. It’s all taken care of now.”
She nods, still crying, and presses her face back into his chest.
Jamie meets my eyes over her head.
“If I see him again, I’m going to kill him,” he says.
The terrifying part is that I know he’s not exaggerating.