Epilogue Two

EPILOGUE TWO

Deanna

The knock on my apartment door makes me jump. Malcolm and Addison are still at school and if there was a problem there, someone would have called me. I hate that after all this time, he's still in my head. I hate that when my phone rings or someone knocks on my door, I flinch because it might be Kyle. I won't call him my ex-husband. He was never a husband. My jailer, my abuser, my tormenter... yes. But never a husband. The first time he hit me was on our wedding day. And my mother told me that I needed to be a better wife so he wouldn't have to do it again.

It's no fucking wonder I put up with it for as long as I did. They say every girl marries a man who reminds her of her daddy. For good or ill, that was certainly true in my case.

Forcing myself to get up, I walk to the door and look out through the peephole. It's not Kyle. But it's also not good. There's no reason for a cop to be at my door that can possibly be good.

I undo the locks and then slide the chain free. When I open the door, he looks at me with such a serious expression. He's young. Not a fresh faced kid, but younger than me. Sure as hell younger than I feel. "Officer?"

"Hartford. Officer Luke Hartford," he says. "Are you Mrs. Deanna Stephens?"

"I was. Now I'm Ms. Deanna Leighton," I correct him. "Are you here about my–about Kyle?"

His expression shifts into something angry flashes in his eyes, but then it's tamped down. "Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but he's been given parole."

"He tried to kill Troy James–a deputy! How could they let him out?" My heart is racing. I feel completely sick, like I'm about to vomit all over this young officer's highly polished boots.

"He took a plea deal and gave testimony about some of his family members' drug activity. That reduced his sentence. And the prisons are so overcrowded that a lot of people were released on parole that probably shouldn't have been," he says. "Deputy James asked me to come tell you this while he was dealing with an active case. Is there someone I can call for you?"

I shake my head. "There's no one. I don't really have anyone." The sadness of that washes over me. I don't. I never had friends before because Kyle wouldn't let me. Friendly acquaintances, that was the limit. I haven't made friends since, mostly out of habit but also out of shame. I feel embarrassed every time I leave my house. I see people looking at me. Pointing and whispering about how I was married to a wannabe cop killer. It's not a secret that he was an abuser, but it's also not a secret that I allowed it. And I don't know, of all those things, which is the most humiliating.

The officer reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little leather bound notebook. He scribbles something down on it, tears out the page and hands it to me. "This is my personal number," he says. "If you need something... even if it's just someone to talk to, you can call me."

"Why would you do that?" I ask him. He doesn't know me.

"Because everybody should have someone. It's not right for someone as beautiful as you to feel that alone."

I blink in surprise. No one has called me beautiful in a very long time. "You're very kind, Officer Hartford. I appreciate that, but it isn't necessary." I try to hand him back the piece of paper, but he simply tucks his hands in his pockets so that I either have to throw it down or keep it. So, I fold it up and slip it into the back pocket of my jeans. "Thank you. That means a lot."

He tips his hat. "Ms. Leighton." He gets about halfway down the steps, heading back to his squad car, when he turns back. "You don't have to wait for something bad to happen to use that number. You can call it anytime."

It was the little grin at the end, the way his eyes flashed when he looked at me. It's been about a million years, so I'm definitely rusty. But I think that man was flirting with me. Still shaking my head, I walk back inside and when I do, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My hair, still cut super short, is messy. There's not a stitch of makeup on my face. I can see the scar near my eyebrow where Kyle hit me so hard my skin split open and I had to have stitches. "Yeah, right. He wasn't flirting. He felt sorry for you, Deanna. Pull your shit together." But I don't throw his number away. I take it out and program it into my phone, then slide that piece of paper into my purse where I won't lose it. Why? Because even scraps of kindness in my life are precious.