CHAPTER 13 #4
Detective Jones pulled the phone away from her ear and handed it back to me. "He wants to speak to you. Keep it brief, Ciara."
I pulled the phone back to my ear, my hand shaking violently now as the adrenaline finally began to fade, leaving behind pure, raw exhaustion. "Joshua?"
"Ciara... oh my God, Ciara," his voice was trembling, a sound I had never heard from him before. The brilliant, unflappable psychologist was completely gone, replaced by a man who sounded like his entire world had just been pulled out from under his feet. "I’m leaving the office right now. I’m getting in my car. I’m coming straight to you. "
"No... Joshua, stay," I whispered, holding the ice tight against my jaw, trying to keep my voice steady despite the searing pain. "Cops are here. A lot of them. You don't... you don't need to drive wild. I’m alive. I’m all good."
"You are not all good!" he snapped, a rare flash of volatile, protective rage bleeding through the line, his breathing heavy and ragged as I heard his car door slam shut over the speaker.
"He laid his hands on you, Ciara. He put a gun to you.
I am going to lose my mind if I don't see you with my own eyes.
Put the detective back on the phone. Right now. "
I passed the phone back to Detective Jones without a word.
She pressed it to her ear, listening for a brief second before nodding.
"Yes, Dr. Joshua. I hear you. I’m already arranging for a permanent patrol vehicle to be stationed outside her apartment building for the next forty-eight hours.
One of my officers will remain on-site to watch over her.
We aren't leaving her unprotected... I understand you're pissed, Doctor.
We are doing everything we can to catch this man quickly. Drive safe."
She ended the call and handed the phone back to me, sighing heavily. "Your man is terrified for you, Ciara. And honestly? He has every right to be. Morgan is completely desperate right now."
An hour later, the apartment was finally quiet again. The crime scene techs had finished taking their photos of my broken kitchen window, the paramedics had finally left after forcing me to sign a refusal form, and Detective Jones had cleared out to lead the manhunt.
I was supposed to be at Mr. Thomas’s cookout right now.
I was supposed to be sitting in a sun-drenched backyard, listening to the old man tell stories about cooking for politicians, laughing with his daughters, and eating Ms. Dora’s food.
But as I stood in front of the small bathroom mirror, looking at the reflection staring back at me, I knew that was a big, definitive no-no.
The right side of my face looked completely fucked up.
My cheekbone was swollen to the size of a golf ball, the skin a horrific, mottled mixture of deep purple, angry crimson, and sickly yellow.
A small, jagged cut where the metal of the gun-butt had sliced through my skin was still oozing a thin line of clear fluid.
My jaw was visibly misaligned from the swelling, making me look like a distorted version of myself.
There was no way in hell I was letting the neighborhood see me like this.
There was no way I was bringing this dark, violent drama to Mr. Thomas’s peaceful sanctuary.
I picked up my phone again, my movements slow and deliberate. I called my mother back, needing to close the loop on the nightmare.
"Ciara? Oh sweet Jesus, thank God you're calling me back!
" my mother cried out the moment she answered, her voice breaking into frantic sobs as soon as she heard me pop up on the line.
"Baby, what is going on? When you hung up on me earlier to call the doctor, my spirit just got so unsettled.
Talk to your mama, tell me you're alright! "
"I’m alive, Ma," I said, my voice flat, hollow, and completely drained of any emotion as I stood inside the bathroom, staring at my bruised face in the big oval mirror.
I trace the swelling with my fingertips, watching my own lips struggle to form the words.
"I made it out alive. Right after I hung up with you, Morgan unexpectedly showed up and busted right through the door. He pushed me to the floor and later gun-butted me right in the jaw. It’s currently swollen right now.
The right side of my face looks like a damn puffer fish.
Anyhow, right before the bastard could pull the trigger the police showed up with their sirens blaring.
Thank God, they showed up when they did.
If they hadn't... it could have gone completely south. It could have gone real bad, Ma."
"Thank the Lord for those sirens," my mother wept, her voice trembling with the deep, visceral terror that only a parent could understand over the phone line. "I’m glad you made it out, baby. I’m so glad the Lord had his hands over that apartment when that devil forced his way in. How is your face right now?”
“I’m still feeling the pain and it’s swollen but I’ll be good,” she revealed.
“Oh thank God, you were always a tough one. Now tell me, what is Joshua doing? Is he with you yet?”
"He’s on his way, Ma. He’s running on pure rage right now," I murmured, my eyes tracing the dark purple bruising along my jawline. "We talked to the detective. They’re leaving a patrol car outside to watch me."
"Good. You stay right there. Don't you dare step outside that door until they got that monster in chains. I love you, Ciara. I’m praying for you every second."
"Love you too, Ma. I’ll call you when Joshua gets here."
I ended the call and set the phone on the sink. I walked slowly back into the living room, the quietness of the space feeling heavy, almost suffocating now. I walked over to the front window, carefully parting the plastic blinds with two fingers to look down at the street below.
Sure enough, a heavy, white-and-blue police patrol jeep was parked directly across the street, its engine idling quietly.
Inside, a lone male officer was leaning back in the driver’s seat, completely oblivious to the dark, murderous thoughts spinning inside my head, casually lifting a glazed donut to his mouth and taking a massive bite.
"I guess no Mr. Thomas today," I whispered to the empty room, a bitter, icy disappointment settling deep into my bones.
Morgan had fucked up my day yet again. He had stolen my peace, he had violated my home, he had laid his filthy hands on my body, and he had marked my face with his pathetic, desperate violence.
He was a disease. A toxic, invasive germ that needed to be completely eradicated from my life like pronto.
There was no room left for restraining orders.
There was no room left for court dates, or police searches, or waiting around for the system to do its job.
I walked over to the kitchen, opened the freezer, and pulled out a fresh zip lock bag filled with solid, heavy ice cubes. I wrapped it in a thin dish towel and walked back to the sofa, sinking heavily into the cushions.
I pressed the ice pack firmly against the right side of my face, gritting my teeth as the sharp, freezing agony shot straight through my jaw.
I leaned my head back against the cushions, staring up at the white ceiling, the rhythmic throbbing in my cheek matching the cold, systematic beat of my own mind.
As the ice began to numb the flesh, my thoughts shifted away from the pain entirely.
They hardened into something sharp, something heavy, and something beautifully lethal.
I sat there in the quiet apartment, watching the shadows lengthen across the floor, completely consumed by the many detailed, brutal ways I was going to personally squeeze the absolute life out of Morgan’s throat the next time I crossed his path.
He had drawn first blood, but I was going to ensure I drew the absolute last.