Never Let You Go

  Tonight. He said we could talk tonight. I had to prepare, steel myself for what was to come. I couldn’t let myself weaken now. I shifted, winced at my sore back. I needed to find a lawyer.

  There was no way I could use my cell—Andrew went over the bill every month and asked about any strange numbers. I found a pay phone near a coffee shop, flipped through a phone book, and made an appointment with a female lawyer for later in the week.

  My cell chirped beside me. It was a text from Andrew.

  Forgot my lunch. Can you bring it?

  He wanted me to bring him lunch? Did he think pretending everything was okay was going to make it true? He didn’t even like me visiting the job site and he could easily buy lunch somewhere or come home. My heart was racing fast, and my car felt too hot and small. I kept looking at my phone. I’d never ignored him before. My phone chirped again.

  Lindsey?

  I couldn’t move. Couldn’t pick it up.

  Don’t do this.

  Nothing for a few minutes.

  Maybe I’ll take Sophie out for lunch.

  He’s never gotten her from school before. Not at lunch. He was planning something. I grabbed my phone with shaking hands. Damn it. I’ll be there in a half-hour.

  * * *

  The job site was busy and loud with equipment and men moving back and forth. I searched through the workers, looking for Andrew’s familiar shape. Finally I spotted him near a cement truck. My breath was tight in my throat again as I got closer. Was he going to want to have a talk in his office? He was with a man, their white hard hats reflecting the sun.

  I walked up beside him. “Andrew?”

  He glanced at me, shifted his hard hat, and wiped at some sweat on his brow. “Hi, babe. I’ll just be a moment. They’re pouring the foundation.” The barrel of the cement truck spun around as the heavy gray wet mass flowed down the chute. He turned to the man. “Every time I see cement, I think of Jimmy Hoffa.”

  The guy laughed. “No shit. He’s probably in an underground parkade somewhere.”

  “Makes you wonder how many bodies are buried on job sites.” Andrew threw his arm around my shoulder. “That’s how you can get rid of me, babe.”

  I couldn’t move, my hand gripping Andrew’s lunch bag. The other man was smiling, but he looked confused. The man was watching me now. Should I make a joke? Brush it off?

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to get my hands dirty.” Both men laughed, but I could hear the tension in Andrew’s throat, the forced tone. He was furious.

  “It would be simple,” Andrew said. “You could toss me in here and the guys would backfill over me and no one would ever know.” He grabbed me, held me over the edge. I clutched at him. If he let go, I’d fall.

  “Andrew!” I screamed.

  He pulled me back toward him and wrapped his arms around me in a tight hug, his cheek against mine. “Hey, relax. I’m just messing around.”

  The other man was still laughing. He thought this was all part of the joke—Andrew and I were having fun. Andrew pressed his lips against mine and I was forced to kiss him back, watching over his shoulder as the man turned away, his face red.

  Andrew finally let go and took the lunch bag from my hand. “Thanks for bringing this.” He pulled a sandwich out of the bag. “Roast beef. My favorite.” He took a big bite and chewed methodically as he focused back on the cement truck. The other man had moved around the side and was talking to the truck driver. I looked up at Andrew. His face was a cold mask.

  “See you at home, honey.” He walked away.

  CHAPTER TEN

  DECEMBER 2016

  When I walk into my support group Monday night a few women are already sitting in their chairs and staring at their feet or hands in silence, while others are gathered around the coffee urn chatting about the weather. I grab a coffee and find a seat.

  We start group the same way each time. We check in about our weeks, how we’re coping. This room is so familiar to me, the brick walls of the church basement, the rain on the outside window, the sour musty smell mixed with coffee and damp hair. I feel the coil of tension in my stomach easing and I’m glad I forced myself out of my warm house.

  There are a few new women tonight, the shock in their eyes still fresh, their bodies tense as they sit huddled into their coats. One of the new members is a young woman, obviously dyed black hair, maybe mid-twenties. I catch her glancing at the doorway as though she’s going to bolt. I give her a reassuring smile and she flushes, but then settles back into her seat.

  Jenny and I met at my first meeting when I moved to Dogwood Bay. I’d never been to a support group before and didn’t know what to say. I sat in the corner, my face hot and stomach churning. Then a blond woman with wild curly hair, damp from the rain and smelling like lavender shampoo, plopped down beside me and handed me a cup of black coffee.

  “It’s terrible, but it does the trick,” she said with a warm smile.

  Startled, I mumbled my thanks and took the cup from her. I wasn’t used to being in a social situation without Andrew, or having the freedom to talk to whomever I wanted—part of me wasn’t sure I even belonged at this group—but I liked the mischievous glint in her eyes, the funky glasses that were almost a little big for her face, her bright blue rain boots.

  I took a sip and made a face. “I might never sleep again.”

  “I don’t think many of us sleep anyway.” She looked down at her cup. “The only thing blacker than this coffee is my ex-husband’s heart.” I’d been surprised by her wry tone. She didn’t sound wounded or ashamed. She sounded angry. I realized then that I was tired of holding my head down, tired of feeling like I had brought this all on myself somehow. I was angry too.

  “The only thing stronger than this coffee is the grip my ex-husband had on my life,” I said. “They should both be flushed down a toilet.”

  She shot me a surprised look, her mouth lifting in a smile. “This coffee is so bitter, it could be my divorce lawyer.”

  I’d started laughing hard and almost spilled my coffee, which then made Jenny howl with laughter. We had to step out of the meeting to get ourselves under control.

  Jenny shops at Whole Foods biweekly, knows more things about kale than I ever will, e-mails me recipes for her latest hemp- or chia-seed protein smoothies, and sends daily inspirational quotes. When she was offered the job in Vancouver as a lifestyle consultant, I was thrilled she was following her dream, but she left a big hole in my life. It had been so long since I’d had a female friend, one who supported me completely. We Skyped yesterday and I told her what had happened at my client’s house and she was almost angrier than me.

  “Ten years wasn’t enough,” she said. “They should’ve locked him up and thrown away the key. If you need to get out of that town, you call me right away.”

  I don’t want to leave Dogwood yet—then Andrew would win. But if push comes to shove, I’m glad to know we have a home with Jenny. Both my parents are gone—my mother succumbed to her MS a few years ago, and my dad had a stroke not long after. They were devastated they hadn’t realized how Andrew had really been treating me when we were married, and disappointed I’d never confided in them, but they understood more once I explained how he’d threatened and hurt me. My mom insisted that I tell them the truth about everything from that moment on, and begged me not to worry about them. Then my father made me promise I wouldn’t come back to the island until Andrew’s trial was over and he was behind bars.

  Chris and I are still close, but he has a live-in girlfriend now and they’re expecting a baby this spring. When I called him Saturday and told him what had happened, he was upset and offered to come stay with me, but I told him to stay with Maddie. She needs him more right now.

  I share with the group about my recent experience and that I think Andrew is stalking me. They’re understanding and have good suggestions for how to deal with the police and the courts, but I see their fear, the worry in their faces, and I sit back down fe
eling even more rattled.

  Marcus arrives at the end of our meeting and unloads his equipment from his SUV—floor mats, punching bags, boxing gloves. He’s come a few times over the last year and we all look forward to his classes. He’s the most centered person I’ve ever met. When I’m standing next to him I feel like the world could be on fire and the flames would just pass over him.

  One stormy night I was the only one who stuck around for his class. He said, “You must have some story if you’re willing to come out in this weather to learn how to throw punches.”

  We sat and talked and I told him about Andrew. After years in a support group, I’d become comfortable sharing my past with the other women, but I was surprised at how easy it was to talk to a man. He was so intuitive, guessing at some of the ways Andrew had controlled and demoralized me—and he was always bang-on. He really understands abusive behavior and how hard it was to break free. I had a feeling he had his own troubled past.

  After that we started meeting once in a while on our own. When the weather was nice we practiced outside. I found him intriguing, was surprised at how much I enjoyed our workouts, and briefly wondered if it might grow into something more. He drove me home once after I had a flat tire, and lingered in the foyer while we talked. When I thanked him later with a bottle of wine, I thought he might invite me to enjoy it with him, but he never did, and we settled into a great friendship. Usually we have a coffee after we’re finished. That’s when I learned that he used to be a psychiatrist. He must have been a good one. I’ve probably told him more stories about my life with Andrew than anyone else. And he’s shared about his daughter.

  I’d seen photos of Katie at his house. She’d been a beautiful girl, with his straight nose, wide smile, and dark coloring. She’d fallen in love with an older man as soon as she graduated and spent the next couple of years embroiled in a volatile relationship. Marcus suspected her boyfriend abused her, but she denied everything and pulled away from her family. She’d called Marcus the night she died, saying she wanted to come home. He’d been on his way to pick her up when he heard the sirens. Her boyfriend had shot her, then himself. She was only twenty-two.

  When his marriage dissolved a year later, he also decided to quit psychiatry—“I felt like a fraud. I couldn’t help my own daughter, how could I help anyone else?” Marcus gave everything to his ex-wife, Kathryn, and spent the next few years traveling. I can’t imagine how hard it was for him to lose his daughter, then his wife. They must have been very much in love at one time—he told me it was his idea to name Katie after Kathryn. But he seems at peace with his pain.

  Tonight Marcus goes around the room and works with each woman until they get every move down perfectly, but I’m not myself, my punches are off, and I miss a few blocks.

  “You okay?” Marcus says. I nod and he holds up the pads and I throw a few hooks. “Again,” he says. I pause and his eyes meet mine. I’m always amazed at how quickly he senses my moods, good or bad. My daughter is the only other person who can do that.

  I thump the pad a few more times until Marcus finally nods his approval and moves on to the next woman. After class I help Marcus take the equipment out.

  “So you going to tell me what’s on your mind?” he says.

  “Stressful weekend.” I’d called Mrs. Carlson on Sunday and she confirmed nothing was missing from her house. She’s still shook up and is going to stay at her sister’s for a couple of weeks. I’d called the officer myself and she told me she’d only been able to match my prints and Mrs. Carlson’s. She hasn’t been able to locate Andrew yet, but I don’t think she’s looking that hard. I mean, as far as she’s concerned, Andrew hasn’t done anything wrong.

  “Andrew broke into my client’s house. He was inside when I was cleaning. He did that thing with my keys—he left them on my purse.”

  “Shit.” He stops in the middle of shoving a box into the corner. “You call the police?” It’s started to snow softly, the flakes drifting down in the light from the open door and landing on his black hair and melting into his close-cropped beard. He brushes them off distractedly

  “Right away, but they didn’t find any fingerprints.”

  He shakes his head. “I had a bad feeling when you started skipping workouts. Guys like your ex-husband don’t just go away. I should’ve said something.”

  “This isn’t your fault. I let down my guard.”

  “Well, don’t do that again. Make sure your alarm is set every night.”

  I nod. “I was hoping you still had time to work out this week?” Marcus has a home gym with top-of-the-line equipment. I’d become lazy when Andrew hadn’t made any attempts to find me. That was my first mistake. One I didn’t plan on repeating.

  “Of course.”

  “It’s all coming back, you know? The fear, the anger. I really thought it was over and he’d moved on. How could I have been so stupid?”

  “You’re far from stupid, but anger is good. We can use anger.” I like the glint in his eye, the determination.

  I nod and throw my shoulders back. He’s right. I’m not going to let Andrew make me feel like a helpless victim. “See you Wednesday.”

  * * *

  Greg comes over the next night, bringing a big bottle of local wine. He prides himself on finding ones with the most amusing names, like Red Monkey Velvet, or Purple Panda. It won’t be expensive—Greg doesn’t make much money as a driver—and I like that he’s never trying to impress. I pour us each a glass while he builds me a fire, then we sprawl on the couch. The wine is good and I would love to finish the bottle, but I’m raw from not enough sleep the past few nights. Too much wine would wreck me.

  I tell Greg about the weekend, downplaying the events, and switch subjects. I tell myself it’s because I don’t want him to worry, but it’s more that I don’t like the helpless feeling of stress and frustration that invoking Andrew’s name creates inside my chest. Besides, that’s not what this evening is about. I don’t need Greg to be a consoling ear or a sympathetic sounding board.

  We don’t talk a lot. Our relationship has mostly been about having fun. When we get together it’s always something simple, dinner and a movie at his house or mine, maybe a walk. He’s a few years younger than me, in his early thirties, and doesn’t seem to take anything too seriously. I still laugh when I think about how he literally landed on my doorstep after he tripped on a loose step. He was so embarrassed when I opened the door and found him hopping around and clutching his knee. The next time he came with a package—and a hammer.

  My cell phone rings. “It’s my brother.” Greg pauses the movie.

  “Just wanted to check on you,” Chris says. “Everything all right?” His voice reminds me so much of our father’s, but he has my mom’s fair looks, and her upbeat everything-is-going to-be-okay personality. When I’m with Chris, I feel like both my parents are still with me, which is comforting. I didn’t expect to lose them so young and I miss them every day. Chris has been a great uncle to Sophie, protective and loyal, always coming to her recitals or soccer games, and every holiday dinner. Since Sophie’s gotten older she travels over to the island and spends the weekend with him and his girlfriend. She can’t wait to have a little baby cousin to spoil.

  “So far, yeah. But can we talk tomorrow? Greg is over right now.”

  He pauses, and I know he’s curious—I’ve told him about Greg, but only that we’re dating, not that he spends the night. “Okay, call me in the morning.”

  I set my phone down on the coffee table, and turn back to Greg. He shifts his weight so we’re face-to-face.

  “So when do I get to meet your brother?” he says. “We’ve been dating for nearly three months. He’s probably starting to wonder what’s wrong with me.” He says it with a cheeky smile that shows off his dimples (one on his left check and a little divot in his chin), but there’s a serious, almost shy tone to his voice. I’m surprised, hadn’t thought he was all that concerned about meeting my brother.

  “I ha
ven’t introduced Chris to a boyfriend for a long time.” I laugh nervously and pick up the bowl. Greg made the popcorn, insisting the butter had to be layered right. He tossed it with a salad fork and spoon, the tattoos on his forearms flexing—a brightly colored phoenix, flames twisting high and disappearing under his sleeve, where I know they meet with a poker hand, the words KING OF HEARTS across his pectoral.

  He smiles. “So I’m a boyfriend?”

  “Do you want to be my boyfriend?” I don’t want to have this conversation right now, when half of my mind is wondering where Andrew is tonight, if he might even be watching my house, but it’s happening whether I like it or not.

  “I don’t know. Does it come with any perks?” His warm hand traces a circle on my thigh, moving upward, and my body tenses. I’m not in the mood and I’m about to suggest we just snuggle, but then I realize this is exactly what Andrew wants—to get inside my head and mess with my life. Greg and I have great sex. He’s the only man I’ve slept with since Andrew, and it was strange at first, his mouth and body not as forceful, but he let me take the lead, which was exciting and new. I learned sex could be fun. I’m not going to let Andrew take that away.

  “Let’s go to bed and I’ll show you.”

  While Greg heads to my room, I turn off the lights and text, Goodnight, to Sophie, who’s spending the night at Delaney’s. I check the dead bolt on the front door and take a quick glance out the window to the road. I used to sense when Andrew was driving home before I even heard his truck, could feel that flutter in my stomach as he rounded the last curve.

  I close my eyes, put my hand over my stomach. It’s calm, but I know Andrew has something else planned. Will mind games be enough for him? Or is he going to try to hurt me? I remember his threats to kill me, how strong he is when he’s angry, how nothing in this world can stop him. I touch my neck, feel the warm skin, my pulse. I’m alive, I’m still breathing.

  I take one more look out the window, and follow Greg to the bedroom.