The ranch house was almost dark, and ominously quiet, as Sergeant Tyrell Watkins and Patrol Officer Ken McCarthy rolled up in their cruiser, their radio squawking. Sergeant Watkins rubbed the mustache on his upper lip absently and shifted in his seat to look around at the dark farm, the quiet barn.
‘It’s so quiet,’ said Ken anxiously. Like all police officers, he knew that the most volatile situation you could encounter on the job was a domestic violence call.
‘Too quiet,’ Tyrell agreed grimly. ‘But, maybe our boy has left the scene. Until we’re sure, keep a sharp eye out.’
‘Count on it,’ said Ken.
‘All right,’ Tyrell said. ‘Let’s go in.’
The two men got out of the car, the leather of their jackets creaking, and approached the house. Tyrell drew his gun. ‘Police,’ he called out, rapping on the door. ‘Open up.’
There was no answer from inside the house. The officers looked warily at one another, and then Tyrell, still holding his gun, pushed open the door and stepped in.
The television was still running in the living room, and a clutter of beer cans was scattered like a miniature obstacle course around the living room, but there was no one in the room. Tyrell walked toward the light in the kitchen and Ken followed, his heart hammering. It didn’t take long for Tyrell to scope out the kitchen.
‘Clear,’ he said.
The young patrolman let out a little sigh and then steeled himself again. The sergeant started down the dark hallway with the patrol officer following him.
‘Police,’ Tyrell called out in his soft drawl. There was no reply. Tyrell looked into each room, throwing the light switches as he made his way down the hall to the last bedroom, where a light was already burning. He walked in, pointing his gun, and looked around. Clothes were scattered everywhere around the room, and Tyrell nearly tripped over a suitcase which lay in a heap beside the door. The closet door was open, and clothes hung off their hangers at crazy angles. But the room was quiet. Tyrell walked over to the closed door on the other side of the bed. The wood in the door was splintered. The 911 caller had said she was trapped in the bathroom.
Tyrell tried the doorknob, but it was locked. ‘Police, ma’am. Are you in there? You can unlock the door now. He seems to be gone now.’
Ken McCarthy, who stood in the bedroom doorway, one leg jiggling nervously, was not so sure of that. He kept looking down the hallway, expecting some enraged, cleaver-wielding husband to burst out and come charging at him. Ken wondered if he’d be able to shoot. He’d never had to shoot a gun in his brief tenure as a Monroe patrolman, but there was always a first time. He glanced back at Tyrell, who was waiting patiently outside the battered door. He always seemed so cool. As if nothing ever bothered him. I’ll be like that someday, Ken thought, if I keep doing this long enough.
‘It’s all right, ma’am,’ said Tyrell. ‘You can open up the door now.’
Inside the bathroom, Dena sat shivering on the floor tiles in the corner, between the toilet and the bathtub, where she had sunk down to wait for help. Brian’s pounding had stopped after a while, and she had heard the sound of the pick-up’s engine roaring in the driveway, but she was not about to get up and unlock the door. She sat in the corner, shivering and waiting.
Now, at the sound of the officer’s voice outside, she forced herself to move. Her legs ached, and felt stiff and cold from resting on the tile. She could tell, without looking, that they were bruised. She used the lid of the toilet and the side of the tub to lever herself to her feet. She walked the few steps to the door on unsteady legs, and unlocked it, pulling the door open and looking out blankly.
A black police officer with a mustache and a smooth, tense-looking face stared back at her. He looked down at her pregnant belly and then back at the blood dried on her face and his expression flickered, but only slightly. He was trying not to let her see how surprised he had been when she opened the door. At first glance, he thought he was looking at a child.
‘Are you all right, ma’am?’ he asked politely.
Dena nodded. ‘Is he gone?’ she asked.
‘He seems to be,’ said the officer. He holstered his gun, and offered her an arm.
Dena reached out and grasped the sleeve of his leather jacket as she emerged from the bathroom into the clothing-strewn bedroom.
‘You’d better sit down,’ said Tyrell.
Dena did as she was told, sitting down in a wicker chair with a ruffled cushion in the corner by the closet. The sergeant walked over to his officer, and spoke quietly to him for a moment. Ken nodded back and then walked down the hallway.
‘Mrs … um.’
‘Miss,’ said Dena, ‘Russell.’
‘Miss Russell, we’re gonna get you over to the hospital, first off.’
‘I’m all right,’ said Dena dully.
‘Well, I think we better let the doctors determine that.’
Dena started to argue and then decided against it. ‘Maybe, you’re right,’ she said.
‘Can you walk?’ he asked her.
‘Yes,’ she said, pushing herself up from the chair seat.
‘You’d better take some things,’ he advised. ‘You may not be coming back here for a while.’
‘Sounds like you’ve done this once or twice,’ said Dena.
The sergeant nodded, unsmiling, and began to pick up the clothing off the floor.
Dena put it hastily back into the bag she had started packing.
‘Miss Russell, what kind of a car is your husband driving? We’re going to have to pick him up and talk to him about this.’
Dena wanted to protest, to explain, to talk about it, but at the moment there was only one thing she could think to say. ‘He’s not my husband,’ she corrected the sergeant. ‘Thank God.’
Dena sat at the edge of an examining table of the Emergency Room waiting for the doctor to return with her test results. Sergeant Watkins was at the nurses’ station talking quietly on the phone. Officer McCarthy had disappeared after they left the Riley farm, but she knew that Sergeant Watkins had spoken to him several times since then.
Dena closed her eyes, but when she did the pounding in her head seemed to increase. All of a sudden, the woman doctor who had treated her earlier came through the swinging doors, carrying a chart and walked up beside her, patting her on the knee.
Seeing the doctor, Sergeant Watkins finished up his phone call and stood by, at a discreet distance.
‘Everything checks out, Miss Russell,’ said the doctor. ‘You’re all right, and the baby’s all right.’
Dena sighed and managed a weak smile.
‘Just be careful for the next twenty-four hours, watch for any signs of bleeding.’
‘I will,’ said Dena.
‘Your face may be a little sore, but nothing’s broken.’
Dena nodded, too ashamed to look the doctor in the eye.
‘You should make sure someone is with you tonight, just in case of bleeding.’
Dena nodded.
The doctor looked at the sergeant with raised eyebrows. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘We’re finished here.’
Dena slid off the table and straightened out her jumper. Tyrell held the door open for her and she walked out into the waiting area. She was acutely conscious of the other people, looking up at her curiously, a very pregnant woman with a bruised face, accompanied by a police officer. Dena could hardly believe this was happening to her.
This was the kind of thing that happened to people on those crazy, true-crime videos on TV. Not to normal people. I’m a college graduate, she wanted to shout. I understand French, and I once decorated a cake that was served to Oprah Winfrey. As if it mattered. It was laughable, she thought, if it weren’t so sad. The doors opened out automatically, and Dena stood hesitantly under the halogen lights, looking out at the dark parking lot.
‘What happens now?’ she asked.
‘Well, I’ll drive you to wherever you want to stay tonight.’
‘I guess I’ll go to the Endicott Hotel,’ she said.
‘You heard the doctor, ma’am. You should not be alone.’
Dena did not reply, and Tyrell had the distinct impression that she had nowhere to go. Then she sighed.
She remembered Jennifer’s insistent invitation, tendered as she had entered her number into Dena’s phone.
She didn’t know what else to do. ‘I’ll go to my friend’s,’ she said in a small voice. ‘She’ll let me stay.’
They walked over to the patrol car, and Tyrell opened the door for her. Dena slid awkwardly onto the front seat and waited for him to come around the other side. The radio was squawking unintelligibly. She stared out into the darkness, feeling numb.
Tyrell got into the car. ‘Where does your friend live?’ he asked.
Dena hesitated, then remembered. The Morgans’ old house. ‘Chestnut Street,’ she said.
The officer’s face was impassive as he started the car. ‘So I don’t have to go to the police station,’ Dena said.
‘Not tonight,’ said Tyrell. ‘Tomorrow, we’ll need you to swear out a complaint. You have a couple of options,’ he said, reciting the possibilities of prosecution, relocation, counseling or restraining orders.
Dena listened in silence. Then she said, ‘I don’t want to press charges,’ she said.
Tyrell did his best not to sigh as the patrol car negotiated the quiet streets of Monroe. These women were all alike. It was hard to feel sorry for them. ‘I’m afraid that’s not up to you, Miss Russell,’ he explained. ‘We are compelled to investigate, even if the victim is reluctant to testify.’
Dena rested her forehead against the cold glass of the passenger side window. ‘I just want this to be over,’ she said.
Tyrell shook his head slightly. How often had he heard this, or some variation of it? It irked him that he and his men had to go out, and risk their safety, to confront these violent household tyrants, just to have their beat-up wives and girlfriends turn around and go right back home to them.
Dena straightened up and looked over at him. ‘I appreciate your coming out to help me, tonight, Sergeant Watkins.’
Tyrell Watkins nodded politely, his face a blank mask. ‘No problem, ma’am.’
‘He never did anything like that before,’ said Dena. ‘It was a complete shock,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it was possible.’
Another perfect relationship hits the skids, Tyrell thought cynically. Surprise. ‘That’s the house – up there,’ Dena said. ‘The cottage with all the windows.’
‘Here,’ said Jennifer Hubbell, carefully handing her husband, Ron, a bowl of vegetable soup. ‘Be careful, it’s hot.’
Ron took the bowl gratefully and placed it on a magazine that sat atop the coffee table in front of him. ‘Thanks, honey,’ he said. ‘I didn’t get a chance to grab anything before I got on the train tonight. And then we had the class …’
‘And that rain was kind of chilling,’ she agreed, settling herself down into the sofa cushions beside him.
Ron was instantly concerned. ‘Are you chilled? You’d better change those clothes if they’re wet.’
‘I’m OK,’ she said, rubbing her hands together. ‘That’s not why I’m shivering.’
Ron gazed at her solemnly. ‘I know, honey,’ he said. Ever since they’d arrived home, his wife had been upset.
‘I just can’t believe it, Ron,’ she said. ‘I knew he had another girlfriend. Well, it wouldn’t matter who it was, but knowing that it’s Dena. A friend.’
‘Take it easy, honey,’ he said. ‘You can’t afford to get too worked up.’ He blew on his soup and ate a spoonful with some crackers. ‘Aren’t you having some?’ he asked.
‘I’ll try a little later,’ she said, making a face. She’d been nauseous for much of her pregnancy so far, although she rarely complained about it.
‘She doesn’t realize … She doesn’t know what he did,’ said Jennifer.
Ron sipped his soup thoughtfully. ‘Well, I have a feeling she will call you. Although you have to be careful what you tell her.’
‘What I tell her?’ Jennifer yelped. ‘I’m going to tell her the truth. That’s what I’m going to tell her.
‘Jenn …’ he warned.
‘She has to know, Ron.’
‘Babe, there is such a thing as slander.’
‘It’s not slander. It’s the truth,’ she cried.
‘He was never arrested. He was never charged …’
‘Are you taking his side?’ she demanded.
‘You know I’m not,’ he said. ‘I feel exactly the same way you do.’ He had never met Jennifer’s sister, Tanya. She had died long before he’d even met Jennifer. Tanya was five years younger than Jennifer, and had moved in with Brian Riley right out of high school. Less than nine months later, she was dead. Brian Riley claimed she had slipped, and cracked her head in the shower. Officially, Tanya’s death was ruled accidental. But Jennifer never believed it. Tanya would call her often in tears over his jealousy, his temper, the way he treated her. But no matter how often Jennifer urged her to do so, Tanya never called the police.
‘I think he’s a menace,’ said Ron vehemently. ‘And I don’t think you’re overreacting.’
Jennifer regarded her husband seriously. ‘It’s too bad not all men are as good as you.’
Ron smiled and rubbed her knee. ‘I think you should talk to Dena. I have a feeling she’ll be receptive. Obviously, that relationship is not going well.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ said Jennifer. ‘I mean, he was happy with Tanya for a while too. It wasn’t till after things started going bad that I started getting those phone calls.’
‘It’s not too late,’ he said. ‘I’ll help you any way I can.’
‘I know,’ she said. He was twelve years older than her, and it showed in the gray around his temples. His first marriage had been childless, and ended in divorce. His first wife, Anita, had changed, and wanted her freedom. Her loss, thought Jennifer. She felt like the luckiest woman in the world to have found him. They’d been married less than a year, but it had been an extremely happy year for them both.
Ron cast his new wife a glance and saw her gazing fondly at him. ‘What?’ he said.
‘Nothing. Eat your soup before it gets cold,’ she said, smiling at him. She heard the sound of her ring tone from the kitchen. ‘I better get that,’ she said.
He watched her disappear into the darkness of the dining room, thinking about how he had been given a second chance. More than a second chance. He heard the murmur of her voice from the kitchen and then he heard Jennifer squeal with delight. She came out of the kitchen, cheerfully waving the iPhone. ‘Laura and Skip are getting married,’ she announced, beaming.
‘That’s great,’ Ron cried. Laura was Jennifer’s best friend in Boston, and Skip was Ron’s college roommate. Though Laura and Skip worked in the same hospital, they didn’t know each other until Ron and Jennifer had introduced them.
‘They want us to stand up for them at the wedding,’ Jennifer exclaimed. Ron grinned, tickled by his wife’s delight.
‘I don’t know,’ Ron teased her. ‘What do you think?’
‘Of course we will,’ Jennifer cried.
Ron nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said.
He thought, for a minute, about the expense of going up to Boston, spending the weekend, renting a tux, and a new dress for Jenn. Then he chided himself for being a cheapskate. He hated it that his first thought was about money at the announcement of such good news. Nobody deserved a break more than Skip and Laura. Skip, a diabetic since childhood, had struggled most of his life with ill-health. He’d become a doctor with a true sense of compassion for his patients. Laura was a nurse who had endured the world’s bitterest divorce and the loss of her kids to her vindictive ex-husband. Finally, after so many years of disappointment and misery, they had found some happiness together. He could not help feeling a little proud that he and Jennifer had helped to bring it about.
Ron loosened his tie, picked up the remote and switched on the TV as Jennifer returned to the kitchen. He might as well watch something. This conversation with Laura was bound to be long. Ron began to surf the channels, looking for something to catch his interest. Something short. He couldn’t get involved in watching a movie. That commute to Philly from here was over an hour so he had to get to bed a little earlier. He didn’t mind though. So far, it was working out all right, even though, when he transferred down here, he had a lot fewer clients than he’d had in Boston. He was just a little edgy because today he’d heard a troubling rumor. There was talk in the office that the Philadelphia branch was going to be closed. He hadn’t been able to get confirmation on it yet. He only prayed it was idle gossip. How could he ever tell Jenn? She was so happy to be back in her old home town, in their new house. He didn’t want to disappoint her. She always seemed to see him as if he was some kind of a hero.
The channel changer reached a football game, well in progress. It was the Patriots, and it was the third quarter. Great, he thought. My old team. He pushed his soup bowl to one side and settled back. From the kitchen he could hear the pleasant murmur of his wife’s voice. Ron slid off his shoes and burrowed into the sofa cushions, losing himself in the progress of the game.
All of a sudden, his comfort was interrupted by the sound of a knock at the door.
Ron looked at his watch and frowned. Who the heck would be arriving at this hour? With a disgruntled sigh, he slid his shoes back on and stood up. He walked over to the door and opened it, peering out into the drizzly night.
Dena Russell stood on the doorstep, her face white except for a purplish bruise on the side of her face. On the curb, in front of their house, was a police cruiser, a police officer leaning against it with his arms folded across his chest.
‘Dena?’ Ron asked.
‘I’m sorry to bother you, Ron,’ she said.
‘What is it? What happened? Come in,’ he said.
Dena remained on the doorstep. ‘This is horribly embarrassing,’ she said. ‘I’ve … there’s been … some trouble … I don’t know anyone here any more. I just didn’t know where else to go.’
‘No, you were right to come here,’ he said.
Ron could feel Jennifer come up behind him. She edged up beside her husband, staring at her friend on the doorstep. ‘Dena, what in the world?’
Dena looked back at her girlhood friend. ‘Brian hit me,’ she said baldly. ‘I had to call the police. I need a place to stay tonight.’
Jennifer held her cell phone to her ear, ‘Laura, I’ll have to call you back, honey.’ She put the phone in her pocket and extended a hand to Dena. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘That bastard. You get in here right now,’ she said, pulling her inside the house. ‘You’ll stay with us.’