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Save the babies.
Immoral murderer.
The last one makes me snort. Is there such a thing as a moral murderer?
Many of the other signs bear the name and logo of Moms for Morality. The sight of it makes my heart fall. I’m familiar with their particular brand of bullshit. They picket places like strip clubs and sex toy stores, but I’ve also seen them target bookstores that sell erotica, women’s clinics that hand out contraception, and movie theaters that show movies they think are immoral. They’re a bunch of self-righteous nutcases, but they don’t give up and move on easily—and they always attract the media.
Marching back and forth, they begin to chant. I can’t tell exactly what they’re saying but I catch adulterer and murderer in there. I wonder which one they consider worse?
I’m not going to unlock my door with those crazies right outside. I’m not sure what they’ll be able to do, but I call the police and the dispatcher promises to send an officer out.
While I wait, I check my messages. Only two clients were still scheduled for today and there’s a message to cancel the one in the afternoon. The other one should be here any minute, but I doubt she’ll be willing to bring her baby through a line of protesters. I sure wouldn’t. With a sigh, I text the client and warn her of the protesters out front. Within a minute, I get a reply that she’ll reschedule.
Somehow, I doubt it.
An officer taps on the front door, and I unlock it to let him inside. “I’m sorry I had to call, but I wasn’t sure what else to do. I can’t open my studio with them blocking my door.”
The officer nods, frowning at the crowd that seems to have grown. “I understand. I can move them back a bit and make sure they don’t touch your customers, but they have the right to protest. I’d love to make them leave or round their asses up, but legally, it’s not possible.”
It’s about what I expected. It looks like I have no customers to protect today anyway.
His expression is sympathetic. “We’ve dealt with them a lot. The best course is to wait them out and they’ll move on to harass someone else.”
I’m done with today and it’s barely nine a.m. He tells me to call if they become violent or start damaging property, then wishes me luck.
Yeah, I’m drowning in luck.
There’s no reason to stay. After double checking everything is locked up tight, I return to my car. I’m not sure what to do with myself. For a moment, I consider going to Stokes Brothers to see Oliver, but in the end, I head home and spend the day wallowing in self-pity.
It isn’t pretty.
A little after ten o’clock at night, I’m lying on my couch staring at the TV when my phone goes off, alerting me that the alarm at my studio has been tripped.
You’ve got to be kidding me. Now someone is breaking in? What do these assholes want from me?
I throw on my shoes and coat, anger driving me forward, and rush to my car. On my way there, I call the cops again and let them know what’s going on. By the time I pull up in front of my studio, two squad cars are parked out front.
The front window of my studio is shattered. Glass covers the sidewalk. “I can’t fucking believe this shit!” I shout to no one in particular, climbing out of my car.
“Are you the owner?” one of the officers asks.
“Yes, I’m Ella. The Moms for Morality protestors were here earlier and—”
“We’re aware of what’s been going on. Stay here while we make sure no one is inside.”
Nodding, I hand him my key.
It’s freezing outside, and I pull my coat tighter around me. Stars spray across the clear sky, and I remember a similar night when Alden and I stood right here. He’d come to help me rearrange my office furniture. We went out to dinner afterward and screwed our brains out in front of the fireplace later. Tilting my head back, I take a moment to admire the stars. That was only a year ago. How did I get here?
“It’s all clear,” one of the officers says, pulling me out of my reverie. “You can come in and see if anything is missing.”
The other officer shines his flashlight around until I throw the overhead lights on. “I don’t see any other damage. Looks like they threw a chunk of cinderblock through the window.”
After a careful search of the premises, I’m convinced nothing has been stolen. “It doesn’t look like they took anything,” I tell them.
“We’ll write up a report for your insurance company. You’ll want to get that boarded up as soon as possible.”
It creeps me out to be here alone once they’ve left. I have some plywood in my garage that will work for the window, but I don’t want to leave the studio like this, where anyone could get in.
