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“Turn around.” Her tone of voice, her whole demeanor, was off. She knew it. And couldn’t relax.
Not saying another word, probably thinking he really was in trouble over a stupid potato, Ethan stood silently beside her.
* * *
When his text dinged on Thursday night, Tad’s first thought was that it was Gail, with information on the chief. Until he realized the sound had come from his regular cell phone—an entirely different notification tone. He had the burner phone out, though, on the table beside his regular phone, while he sat and tried to watch a wildlife documentary.
You want to have dinner tomorrow night?
His body leaped to immediate attention. Had Ethan been invited for another sleepover?
Of course.
He was typing in another text, telling her to name the time and place, eagerly anticipating the response of my place, when she texted back.
Ethan wants to know if you’ll play Zoo Attack.
Of course. His response was just as quick. The rest of his bodily reaction took a bit longer to be agreeable to the plan.
* * *
She was being ridiculous. Miranda knew it. And yet, after Ethan was in bed Thursday night, she paced their small house, making certain multiple times that all the doors were dead-bolted. That the windows were latched. She kept her phone with her constantly. Placed her keys by the garage door.
In her closet, she checked inside the toe of a particular shoe, pulled out a roll of bills. Stuffed it in her bra. She was wearing it to bed that night.
And from under the bed, she dragged out a backpack, making sure she had underwear and jeans that were Ethan’s current size. Added some extra granola bars to the nonperishable food stash in the front pocket.
The poor kid had a mother who was a paranoid mess. She saw it. And couldn’t stop.
The only way not to be afraid was to act. So she was acting like a woman who could keep them safe. Preparing herself to calmly get them out of there if she had to. Grabbing her extra set of car keys, she carried them to bed with her. And then decided to sleep on the couch.
Routine was bad when someone was after you. It made you an easier target.
What she wanted to do was sleep in her son’s room, on the floor between his bed and window. She went in there for a while.
And realized that if he woke up, there’d be
no good way to explain what she was doing. Or why.
She had to get a grip. Live normally. After all, lots of people had baseball caps. Gray was a common color.
Thinking back over the past couple of days, she couldn’t even be sure that whoever was wearing the cap—or caps—had been the same person all three times.
She hadn’t gotten a good enough look on any of those occasions.
She’d turned away whenever she noticed him, so as not to draw his attention.
She couldn’t describe his clothes. They’d been different, but baggy all three times.
That similarity sent a spark of fear shooting through her again. This was what being afraid did to you. What domestic violence in particular did to you. It made you feel unsafe in your own home.
Out in the living room, she picked up her phone. It was almost eleven. Too late to call anyone. She wasn’t Marie, assigned to a High Risk Team with people on alert on her behalf.
She didn’t want to call “anyone.” She wanted to call Tad.
Or at least, text him.
Instead, she lay down with her phone in her hand and thought about being in his arms. Pictured her head on his chest, listening to his heart beat.
