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Very likely Holly had saved her own life.
But that didn’t mean that she wouldn’t have to prove self-defense in court. Her crappy life wouldn’t get better for some time, if ever.
I retraced my steps and bent to the man bleeding out on the floor. He was stocky, maybe in his thirties, and had tattoos on his arms and neck. A mixture of blood and air bubbled through what remained of his nose and lower jaw. He was alive. But he might not want to survive what he was facing—surgery, pain, food through a straw—while in jail.
I called dispatch and was told the ambulance was only three minutes out. I said that the situation was under control, that the EMTs could come directly into the house, and I asked for Child Protective Services.
Conklin led Holly to a plaid tub chair and sat on the couch across from her. She was babbling incoherently when I went down the hall in search of children.
I found two youngsters in the smaller of the two bedrooms, hiding between a bed and the wall. They popped up when I called, “Hey there.”
I thought the little girl was about four. The boy looked eight. The little girl looked me in the eye, then sucked in a deep breath and screamed before crawling under the bed.
The boy dried his face with his T-shirt and sputtered, “Are you the police?”
“You called us, right?”
I showed him the badge hanging from a chain around my neck.
“I’m Sergeant Boxer, but you can call me Lindsay. What’s your name?”
“Leon. Leon Restrepo. That’s Cissy.”
“Do you know how many people are in the house?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me?” I asked.
He pointed out to the living room. “Her. Him. Me and Cissy.”
“Is Holly your mother?”
Leon nodded his head. Tears started flowing down his cheeks.
“Okay, Leon. Okay. Can you tell me what happened here?”
“She’s always hating on him,” the little boy said. “She’s always threatening to shoot him, and my dad, he always says, ‘She’s just talking.’ But she killed him, didn’t she?”
“No, no, your dad is alive, but he’s hurt.”
“Oh, man, this is so bad.”
Leon fell across the bed and cried like he would never stop. Between his sobs, he cried, “I love my dad,” he said. “I love my dad so much. Please don’t let him die.”
CHAPTER 29
I OPENED THE front door to our apartment on Lake Street, and Martha came tearing around the corner from the living room. She threw her front feet hard against my solar plexus and sang her special welcome-home anthem.
I stooped, kissed her, ruffled her coat, and followed her back to the room where my husband was rising from his big chair, coming toward me, arms open.
“Maria Teresa just left. Julie’s had her bottle and her bath and she’s sleeping,” he said, giving me the biggest hug. “She made chocolate pudding for us, and, yes, I took Martha for a good long stroll.”
“Thank you, Joe. What a day I’ve had.”
“Did you eat?”
“Hah. No.”
