15. Chapter 15
Harriet
The cruiser pulls up behind Kwemby’s car, lights off but the engine running.
Officer Nia Brown—forty-something, compact, with her badge clipped to her belt—kills the ignition with a quick turn of the key.
She steps out, adjusting her utility belt, and gives the house a quick once-over. Clover Hill Drive. Our marital home.
The house looks exactly as I left. The front porch light on and the bushes by the front door are in desperate need of trimming. The hanging plant I’ve kept alive for a full year, even through winter, swings gently in the spring breeze.
I nod. “Yes. We bought it together after we got married.”
“And you’re here today to retrieve personal items that belong solely to you?”
“Yes. A family heirloom. A ring.”
“You have the legal right to enter the property and remove your belongings. Dispatch says there is a pending ‘no contact order’ that has yet to be signed by the judge, so I cannot force your husband out of the home. I’ll accompany you inside, document anything you take, and ensure there are no issues with access or safety.
I’m not here to mediate. I’m only here to ensure safety. Got it?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She steps aside, giving me room to approach the door. “Lead the way whenever you’re ready.”
My key feels strange in the lock. It’s the same one I’ve used a million times, but now feels like someone else’s. I swing open the door with Officer Brown and Kwemby right there. Right away I notice the smell of food. Specifically, it’s burnt cheese.
“Someone’s home,” Officer Brown says, her hand already moving to her belt—not to her weapon, but to her radio to keep dispatch updated.
Kwemby places his hand on my shoulder and gently nudges me in a way that tells me he wants to step inside first. I let him. We both know it’s not Coris or Maren in the home because when we left them, they were headed to class.
With Kwemby leading the way, we follow the smell to the kitchen, where a man stands with his back to us, stirring something in a pot on the stove.
He’s wearing the apron I gave him three Christmases ago—“Kiss Santa Under the Mistletoe” in bright red letters across the back—and humming quietly to himself.
“Buck,” I say, annoyed that he’s doing whatever this is, acting like everything is completely fine.
He turns, wooden spoon in hand. He carefully places it down. “Harriet, you’re home. I thought I had more time, I’m sorry. I planned on doing yard work and cooking you a nice meal.”
Boxed mac and cheese. How thoughtful. It doesn’t matter, anyway.
Then Buck sees Officer Brown in the doorway and Kwemby to my side. A look of raw shame flushes across his face, his eyes dropping to the floor tiles immediately.
“What’s going on?” he asks. “Why is there a police officer in my kitchen?”
“Ms. Dallas is retrieving personal items,” Officer Brown says, her voice professional. “I’m here to ensure safe access and document the removal. Please continue with your activities, but do not start an argument or get in our way. We won’t be long.”
“This is about what I did to you on the drive,” Buck says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “There is no explanation for it, Harriet. I was entirely wrong, and I take full responsibility for what I put you through.”
Officer Brown says nothing, just keeps her finger on her radio. Kwemby stands perfectly still beside me, his presence steady.
“I’m only here for the ring,” I say, each word clear so he won’t misunderstand. “Then we’ll go.”
The first real flash of understanding shifts in Buck’s expression. “You’re leaving?” he asks, his voice rising. “Yes, I made a mistake, but we can fix this, Harriet. Thank you for driving her home,” he says to Kwemby. “I can take it from here.”
“Like hell you will,” Kwemby mutters. Then, saying “sorry” to me for interjecting.
“He’s right,” I say to Buck. “No one is simply dropping me off, and what you did wasn’t a mistake.
You haven’t treated me right for longer than I can remember.
I can’t even pinpoint when it started—only that it grew until you did something so evil that your manipulation and abuse were too heavy to ignore. ”
He crosses the kitchen in three quick strides, already reaching for me. “Baby, no—that’s not—I love you. I’ve always loved you. We can work this out.”
I step back, bumping into Kwemby’s chest. His hand comes to my waist and steadies me, before he wraps his arms around me protectively.
“I’m not your baby,” I say.
“Please,” he says, his voice cracking. “I’ll do better. I’ll go to counseling. I’ll remember about the fish. I’ll—” He drops to his knees on the kitchen tile, one hand already reaching. “I can’t lose you, Harriet. You’re my wife. You’re my life.”
His display is absurd.
“I was never yours, Buck. I was merely someone who loved you.” I lift my chin.
“I’m done with that. I’ve moved on and realized my true feelings.
I’ll take accountability for myself, in that I haven’t been in love with you for a very long time, but just as I ignored your abuse, I turned a blind eye to how our love faded long ago. ”
Buck stays on his knees, one hand still reaching. “The girls,” he says, his voice rough. “They’ll never view me the same.”
“They’re adults,” I reply, frankly disgusted by his continued refusal to take complete accountability. Not that it would change anything. “They can make their own choices. Just like I’m making mine.”
I step around him, careful not to get close enough that he could grab me again. The kitchen tile is cool under my feet, and I’m aware that this may be the last time I walk them. I’d rather hire movers.
“The bedroom’s this way,” I say to Officer Brown, already walking to the hallway. “The ring’s in the closet safe.”
We walk through the house in single file—me first, then Officer Brown, then Kwemby bringing up the rear. I suspect it’s because we left Buck behind in the kitchen, and Kwemby wants to be closest to him. The living room gives way to the hallway, the hallway to the bedroom door.
Behind us, Buck calls my name—once, twice, his voice breaking on the third try.
Finally, Officer Brown speaks up, “Sir,” she calls without leaving my side. “Your wife allowed you to speak and has declined speaking further. I’m going to ask you to leave us alone and let us conduct our business.”
“Ex-wife,” I mumble, though I understand her position. Our paperwork was only filed this morning.
“Please,” he’s saying. “Just let me talk to her for five more minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Officer Brown replies, her voice firm. “She said no.”
The bedroom closet smells like cedar and old shoes. I push aside the hanging clothes and step into the narrow space. The safe sits on the top shelf, a small metal box with a combination of the twins’ birthday.
After I unlock it, my mother’s voice filters through my memory.
“It’s not the value,” she’d said, pressing the ring into my hands on my eighteenth birthday.
“It’s the history.” The ring may be only a thin gold band with a small oval garnet, the metal worn smooth on the underside from years against my ancestors’ fingers.
I close my hand around it, feeling the ring dig into my palm.
From the hallway comes the sound of Buck’s voice, louder now. “Harriet! Please! I’m begging you!”
I stand, the ring still clutched in my fist, and move to the door. Kwemby steps aside, giving me room to pass, only because Officer Brown steps between me and Buck, whose hand is already reaching for her radio. His face is streaked with tears, his shoulders slumped beneath his ridiculous apron.
“Harriet, please. I know I don’t deserve another chance, but please! I’ll cook every meal, I’ll play your trivia games and listen to you talk.”
Thank my lucky stars, Officer Brown’s radio goes off. “Unit 873, Officer Brown. Unit 873 Officer Brown, you there?”
The officer holds up her finger to us as a way to get us silent. “Copy, Unit 873 here.”
“Judge Powers signed a no-contact order restraining Buck Dallas from having any contact with Harriet Dallas.”
“Copy that,” Officer Brown says into her radio. Then to Buck, “You heard them. One more word, and I’ll arrest you.”
“We’re leaving, officer,” I say, though if I was vengeful I’d ask the officer to remove him from the home. Let him find a new place to stay. But I want to exit out of this marriage completely, and that includes from the house.
I walk past him without stopping. The front door opens with its usual creak, the spring air cool against my flushed face. I step onto the porch, Kwemby just behind me, Officer Brown bringing up the rear.
Kwemby steps up beside me. “You okay?”
“Yes. I’ve got my ring and a protection order, and the divorce is already in process. I’m as good as I can be given the circumstances.”
We walk to the cars: Kwemby and I to his sedan, Officer Brown to her cruiser.
The afternoon sun cuts across the driveway, highlighting the particular pattern of cracks in the concrete where the twins learned to ride their bikes, the particular spot where Buck backed into the mailbox three years ago and never got around to fixing it.