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The doorknob rattled. “Please let me in, ma’am. I’ll get you settled for the night and have Cook fix warm milk for you.”
Rather than cause more questions, Emily slid the suitcase under her bed and opened the door.
“Ah, I can see you are not feeling well. Turn around so I can help you out of your gown.”
Hoping to make quick work of the entire process, Emily turned herself over to the maid for the requisite undressing, washing, night clothes, hair brushing, and finally, the warm milk. Once she was tucked into bed, with Louis still not at home, the maid left. Emily threw off the covers and dragged the suitcase back out.
She laughed at what she’d thrown into the bag. Hunter had told her to pack whatever she couldn’t live without. Slowly, she pulled out a bottle of perfume, two scarves, a packet of hairpins, one shoe, two pencils, and an invitation to afternoon tea. Apparently, she’d been a bit distracted when she’d packed.
With a clearer mind, she returned those items to their respective spots, and re-packed essential items. Feeling a bit calmer, but still on edge knowing Louis was coming to her, she returned the suitcase to the closet.
Two hours passed while she jumped at every little sound. It was odd how the noises the house made at night had never caught her notice before. She’d been lying in the darkness, hoping when Louis did come home he would think her asleep. Of course that wouldn’t necessarily stop him, but one could wish.
The grandfather clock downstairs had chimed three o’clock when she heard the front door open. Her heart began to pound and she closed her eyes, like a little girl who tried to make herself invisible. If I can’t see you, you can’t see me.
Louis’s climb up the stairs seemed to take forever while her heart tried to escape her chest. The sound of a crash, followed by a string of foul language made her jump. He must have banged into something in the dark. She pulled the covers over her head, praying he would forget his promise and go right to bed.
The door to her bedroom slammed open. “Where the hell are you?”
He was drunk. From the sound of his voice and the stumbling he made toward the bed, very drunk. She lay very still like a rabbit hoping his prey wouldn’t see him. Cold air rushed over her as he yanked the covers off. “Ah, there she is. My beautiful, devoted wife.”
Emily cursed the moonlight streaming through the window. Its brightness almost cast the room into daylight. She stayed curled up, her back to him. Praying.
“I want to know who you spread your legs for in Guthrie.”
“No one.”
“Liar.” He swung, striking her on her shoulder. “I’ll show you what happens to women who walk out on me.” She broke into a sweat at the sound of his belt slipping from his pants. Arms crossed, her hands fisted tightly against her chest, she waited for the first blow. It came, but with very little power behind it. She held her breath. Within seconds she was crushed beneath the weight of his body sprawled on top of her.
She remained still until she heard the sounds of snoring. Tears of relief spilled from her eyes. After giving herself a few minutes to calm down, she eased out from under him. She wiped her wet cheeks and took a deep breath.
What she needed was a strong drink. She slipped into a robe and padded downstairs to the library. The sounds and shadows no longer frightened her, but eased her fears. Now grateful for the moon’s rays, she easily found the liquor bottles on the sideboard in the library. Hands still shaky, she poured a tiny bit into a glass and downed it—coughing and wheezing for a good five minutes afterward.
Early the next morning, Hunter entered the Galveston Police Station. Several officers sat at desks writing reports, a man was being questioned by another officer, and two young girls, one with a black eye, sat sulking on a long bench along the back wall, handcuffed to each other. Hunter approached the man at the first desk. “I’d like to report a crime.”
The officer, whose badge read Officer Mallory leaned back in his chair and tapped his lips with a pencil. “This crime happen to you?”
“No. To my father.” He glanced around at the attention he was gathering and said, “Can we go somewhere a little quieter?”
“Sure.” The officer stood and led him to the back area, passing by several unoccupied desks next to where the girls sat. One of them winked at him, and he couldn’t resist smiling. The officer opened a wooden door with a glass pane in the top area stenciled with the word Interview Room. He waved Hunter toward a seat at a small scarred table and closed the door. He settled into the seat across from him, then grabbed a pad and pencil off a shelf behind him and looked up. “What’s your father’s name?”
“Henry Henderson.”
“Age?”
“Deceased.”
The officer laid the pencil down and stared at him. “What sort of a crime was committed against your father?”
“Murder.”
“Murder?”
“Yes.”
“Here in Galveston?”
“No. Ellsworth, Kansas.”
