Dalton
Hampton, Virginia
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel.
I don’t think I realized how badly I needed this morning until it was happening.
The stress from Saturday, both from the flight demonstration and everything that happened after, the tension from having Kyler around, the pain that knowing what Ivy endured—it’s all been so much.
And because my only real concern is keeping Ivy and Hadley safe, I’ve just sort of taken it all on.
I should probably buy Logan and Wells a beer and get some of this off my chest, but this morning helped.
Feeling close to Ivy, connected to her, not just physically, felt right.
Everything about her feels right. We’ve barely had the “what are we” conversation so I can’t walk in saying “I love you” and I think that while she may want to say it back, I don’t think she’s ready.
I think a month ago she would have told Kyler she still loved him.
And I think she would have meant it. I think she needs to be able to breathe for a little while without anyone expecting anything from her.
As I get closer to my house, I use CarPlay to call Ivy and give her a heads-up that I’m coming home. She doesn’t answer. Which I guess isn’t exactly weird. But leaves an unsettled feeling in my stomach.
I turn onto my street and drive a little faster than normal, needing to see her to know that she’s fine.
But when I get to my house, there is a car parked in my driveway.
The beat-up blue Honda with the New Jersey plates.
I unlock the glove compartment, wrap my hand around the grip of my 9mm, the familiar weight calming some of the storm inside me.
I throw the door open, jumping out, not bothering to turn off the Jeep.
The front door is wide open and the bay window beside it is smashed, glass fucking everywhere.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
The second I see the shattered glass, my brain flips into something colder, quieter. Every entrance, every blind spot, every possible weapon in reach catalogs automatically.
Ivy screams.
I don’t wait. I rack the slide out of habit, the metallic click loud in the quiet morning, then rush through the door, gun raised, staying just off the doorframe, scanning left, right.
I keep my finger indexed along the frame, not the trigger.
There are two men dressed in black. Both have their backs to me.
One is holding her arms behind her back, forcing her to sit in one of the chairs from the kitchen table.
She’s trying to fight back, gets one hand free and smacks the one holding her other wrist in the face.
The second man steps closer gripping her free wrist so hard she yelps and screams again.
He let goes when his partner has secured both of her hands behind her back.
Then I sneak up to the one closest to me, holding the gun to the back of his head.
“Let her go. Now. Then get the fuck out of my house.” He stiffens, like he’s calculating whether I’ll hesitate.
I won’t. The other man studies me. He doesn’t look surprised that I’m there, which bothers me.
Ivy’s eyes go wide, tear tracks streaked with her mascara have marked her otherwise unharmed face. She’s fully dressed in jeans and a tank top, her white Keds are even still on. Her long blonde hair is curled but messy from the fight she put up.
The man’s hands instantly go up, but he doesn’t speak.
Neither does his partner as he releases Ivy, lifting his hands as well.
I have no doubt these men are armed, but neither seem interested in a gun fight as they slowly back away from Ivy toward the front door.
My gun tracks them as they approach the front door and they don’t stop.
My hands are steady on the weapon, but everything else inside me is shaking.
I don’t lower the gun as I hear an engine turn over.
I offer Ivy my hand and she rushes toward me.
I press her against my back as we make our way to the shattered window.
The driveway and street in front are empty aside from Ivy’s white Audi and my poorly parked black Wrangler.
The door is still open, the engine still idling.
It’s at that moment that I finally lower my gun, wrapping both arms protectively around Ivy and tucking her head under my chin.
Her body shakes uncontrollably and sobs wrack her small frame.
Her fingers twist into the fabric at my waist, and I tighten my hold on her.
I kiss her hair, murmuring, “You’re okay, I’m here, I’m not leaving you. ”
I shouldn’t have left her alone. I shouldn’t have fucking left.
I pull my phone out of my pocket.
“9-1-1, what is the address of your emergency?”
“144 Meredith Street.” My voice is shaking.
“And what is your emergency?”
“Two men just broke into my house and attacked my girlfriend. I got home in time and scared them off. They’ve left now, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they come back.”
“Are there any weapons involved?”
“Yes. I have a firearm. The suspects may be armed but they fled.”
“I am sending the police now. They’re less than two minutes from your location.”
I sigh in relief. “Thank you. I have the license plate.”
“Okay, I’m ready for it.”
I read the letters and numbers off and then I hang up because I need to call Kyler.
He answers on the first ring. “Is Ivy okay?”
“Yes. But someone broke into my house. I’m here. She’s okay—”
He curses under his breath. “I’ll be there in five minutes.” And then he hangs up.