Chapter 47
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Sam
Andrew paces around my apartment. I’ve been with him for ten minutes and so far, he hasn’t tried to touch me. He hasn’t even seemed violent.
He does seem different, though.
Off.
I can’t pinpoint it, and the reality here is, I don’t know the man. I wasn’t in the best place when we got together, but I didn’t think he’d ever end up hurting me physically.
After a lot of soul-searching in the last year, if not longer, I’ve accepted that part of me probably knew he isn’t a nice guy.
He isn’t kind, either, and he never would’ve been a real partner to me.
But I’d had this weird sense that maybe I didn’t deserve a partner, and maybe what I needed was to accept that I needed someone who wanted to put up with me and if he could, that’d let me have some breathing room from the stress of living paycheck to paycheck.
Of course, I was tragically wrong on so many counts. But I escaped his web, even if it cost me most of my financial solvency, and I rebuilt myself.
Brick by brick, over time, I did it.
And now, he’s here trying to tear it all down.
“There’s no way it’s as good as LA Indian food. You remember Curry King? Yeah, no one’s beating that naan.”
He’s stopped in front of my bed now and his mere presence there turns my stomach.
“Curry King was great, yeah. This place is awesome, though.” And it’s the only way I could figure out how to call Grant. I didn’t think I could get away with calling emergency services and being so cryptic, but Grant got it, bless the brilliant man.
He runs a hand over the end of the bed, then grips the comforter. A greasy, sick sensation climbs my throat.
“So everything’s just better here, huh?” He turns and pins me with a gaze that makes my blood flash cold.
Because it’s familiar.
Until now, he’s been a version of himself I can’t figure out.
A little like when we first met, a little like the last time I saw him where he vacillated between apologetic, angry, and sad about our divorce, but certainly completely ignoring the reality that he hurt me.
Oh, and by the way, I’m convinced he never loved me and only ever wanted to control me.
The fact that he’s here now still feels like a waking nightmare. I don’t know where he thinks this will end up, but all I have to do is last another fourteen-ish minutes.
“Of course it’s not. But it’s a fresh start for me, and that’s what I needed.”
He turns toward the kitchen and kicks the leg of a stool right next to where Mr. Bingley is hiding.
My sweet, loving cat bolts under the bed and I’m relieved he’s finally out of sight again.
He’d been under the bed when I got back and discovered Andrew squatting here like he didn’t break into my home, but the little fluff inched out as though compelled to keep an eye on me.
Instead of telling him to leave my cat alone, I bite my tongue.
I’m not cowering here. I’m waiting. Yes, I could make for the door and scramble down the stairs, but when I first saw him, I backed toward the door and he got this sick, thrilled grin on his face and said, “If you run, Samantha, I’ll have to catch you. ”
Knowing Grant wasn’t home and Andrew likely would get to me before I could get to my car, I pivoted.
Drawing him out, acting like I’m trying to understand why he’s come, bought me a little time to think about how I’d get out of this.
He also slid the deadbolt on the door behind me, set a small side table in front of it, and demanded we talk.
There have been no great revelations. He hasn’t apologized, not that that would make a difference to me now, but he also doesn’t seem to want to hurt me again. Or if he does, he’s taking his time with it.
Just when I’m starting to think maybe he’ll keep wandering around touching stuff and not end up doing anything at all before Grant arrives, he runs a finger along the rim of my fruit bowl, then shoves it off the counter. It shatters, apples rolling in all directions, and I swallow hard.
“Did that get your attention?”
“What do you want?”
He removes his suit jacket—because of course he’s wearing a suit—and tosses it over the back of the couch as he moves toward me.
It’s not his usual saunter, the one he uses in LA to announce he’s the most important man in any room he enters.
It’s slower, controlled, and if the shattered pottery isn’t enough, this tells me I need to leave.
I don’t know when Grant will be here, but I may not be able to wait. I may have to run and figure out how to handle him outside rather than caged in here.
He’s rolling up his sleeves like he’s got plans for me, plans for those hands, and I curl inward as he speaks.
“Isn’t it obvious, Samantha? I know you’re stupid, but it must be worse up here in the thin air.” His sneer pulls what I once thought a handsome enough face into something garish. “I want you back.”
Air rushes out of me. “How would insulting me and invading my space and breaking my things accomplish that?”
His jaw hardens and his eyes get that dead look that makes my heart stutter. I’ve seen it a few times, but the most vivid was when he finally put his hands on me.
Dread and primal fear sluices through my veins in a hot rush.
The bell rings and I whip toward the door, running to open it, but Andrew smacks his hand against it to hold it shut before I can yank it open.
“Delivery.”
It’s Grant. I’d swear it. I want to cry.
Instead, I say, “Just a sec!” but Andrew speaks, too, shouting, “Leave it.”
There’s a beat, then Grant’s voice comes out commanding and crisp despite the panel between us. “This is the police. Open the door.”
Andrew stiffens, then turns to me, but I jump away, stumbling into the coat rack in the corner. Sirens sound somewhere outside, and Andrew is coming at me.
Several things happen at once.
First, I know in my gut Andrew is going to hurt me and my fight instinct is kicked into high gear.
I grab at anything I can reach and find a large umbrella I yank out of the basket where it rests at the base of the rack and swing it as hard as I can at him.
It connects with his shoulder, the impact powerful enough to send a jolt of vibration into my wrist. He makes a horrible sound and clasps at the place I hit right when Mr. Bingley charges and sinks his claws into Andrew’s calf.
My little guard kitty looses a fearsome yowl, Andrew yells, and I’m ready to swing again.
At the same time, the door bursts open, the small table sliding away, and Grant, followed by several more familiar faces, proceeds inside, weapon drawn.
“Hands up! Andrew Slatten, put your hands up and get on your knees.”
It’s a blur, then. Grant holsters his weapon and comes straight for me while two deputies deal with Andrew.
“Are you okay? Where are you hurt?” Grant’s concern shines through, but he’s all focus as he pats me down just shy of roughly looking for injuries.
“He didn’t touch me. I hit him with the umbrella.” I hold it up only to realize I broke the thing and now errant wires formerly tethered to stays of the material poke out at odd directions.
A smile flashes. “Didn’t even need me, huh?”
I laugh, but it’s watery. I feel the adrenaline dumping out of me and tears gather. “I did. Thank you for coming. Thank you for getting here.”
He shakes his head, then clutches me to him. “I’ll always come. But I’m so sorry this happened.”
“No, I’m sorry.” Then I remember what he was doing, and why we weren’t together this afternoon. “Where are the girls? Are they okay?”
“No apologies from you, not one.” His blue eyes are bright and insistent until I nod, then he adds, “I left them at the station with Diego, and May was on her way to them the minute he called her. They’ll be just fine, especially after they can give you a hug.”
He gathers me close again and I take a slow breath. The bubble that closed around us when he came to me pops with Andrew’s shouted threats.
“I’ll sue every one of you in this Podunk town!
I’ll bankrupt your little department, your town, maybe even your county!
I’ll buy up every free plot of land and bring in commercial chains to put every pathetic little business in the red, and then I’ll start bulldozing anything even remotely historic.
I will end Juniper View.” Andrew’s wild eyes reach me. “And then I’ll start with you.”
“Nope.”
That’s all I hear before Grant crosses to where Brian, a man I realize I know, and a slightly older-looking short blond deputy are holding Andrew. He gets right in Andrew’s face and speaks so quietly, I’d miss what he says if I weren’t straining to hear it.
“This can’t get much worse for you, but I promise you that if you threaten her in any way, it will. Is that clear?”
Andrew rears back and starts to spit something back at Grant. “I—”
Grant shakes his head. “No. You have nothing else to say here. You do Mirandas?”
Brian and the woman confirm, then lead Andrew away.
“They’ll need photos and anything else that might be helpful. We’ve got to take your statement, too. Why don’t you pack a bag and get Mr. Bingley’s carrier and stay with us tonight, if you’re comfortable with that?”
“Yes. Please.” I am so comfortable and relieved by the idea of not staying in this space, I could cry. In fact, I do let a few tears loose as I come down from the intense stress response of being locked in my apartment with my abusive ex for a half hour.
Can that really be all it was? It feels like I just spent a week pressed up against the wall farthest away from wherever he was in my place.
We spend a solid ten minutes coaxing Mr. Bingley, who has vanished under the bed again, into his carrier.
I pile some things into a bag and grab my computer as though I’ll actually do homework tonight and not request another couch-rot movie night with Grant and the girls as my consolation for this garbage encounter with Andrew, and then we leave.
I’m regretful, almost guilty, leaving the space as messy as it is, but Grant promises it’s good and we pass a guy with a camera on the way back up who’s presumably going to take photos for evidence. I know in my head this is right.
Later, after talking through what happened and giving my formal statement to Deputy Angie, who seems happy to meet me and like she’s heard about me, I feel like I’m coming out of a memory, not something real.
“Let’s get you home.” Grant brings my hand to his mouth and kisses the back of it as we walk across the driveway toward his front porch.
And when we step inside and he sets my things down, sliding Mr. Bingley’s carrier into the living room, he wraps me up in his strong arms, and I cry.