Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Dana and the kids are continuing their binge-watch of an animated series they finally agreed on after lunch.
Caroline had a rough day at work with the loss of a patient, so she went to her room early.
Melissa is still at work and won't be home until much later.
Traci said she was going to lie down right after dinner.
Denise arrived for her overnight shift half an hour ago.
It leaves me with not much to do. All notes have been entered into the system, and although I could simply go sit on the sofa and watch television, I don't want to interfere with that family's bonding time. Dana needs as much one-on-one time with her kids as she can manage.
I stop at the front door, pulling the blind back a little to check outside.
Fully expecting what I always see—the form of a man to the left and an otherwise empty yard—I'm surprised to see an SUV pull up and other Cerberus members piling out of it.
I wait, expecting Misty, Beth, or Emmalyn to follow, but they never appear. It's normal for security to increase when they're here.
I breathe deep, alarm bells going off in my head.
I count to five, pressing my left fingers to the pulse point on my right wrist, trying to convince myself that everything is fine. Maybe this is how all weekends are, and I wouldn’t know any different because this is the first one I've worked.
I pull open the front door, the man standing to the left looking in my direction.
"What's going on?" I ask him, my eyes tracking the movement of the men as they surround the house.
I scan everyone who walks by, but none of them is my guy.
My guy?
I have no idea where that classification came from, but the fact that I don't see him yet concerns me more right now.
"What's your name?" I ask when he doesn't answer my first question.
"Rocker, ma'am."
"What's wrong?" I ask, reframing my question.
"You're safe," he assures me.
Reading between the lines is easy. He isn't telling me that there's nothing wrong, just that whatever it is won't affect our safety.
"Where's the other guy who's normally here?"
"Nyx?" he asks.
Is that his name? It doesn't even matter at this point.
"I want—" I begin, but notice movement toward the street.
Another SUV pulls up, this one white with a flower shop logo on the side. The vehicle isn't professionally wrapped for the flower shop. It looks like a simple magnet stuck to the side.
I'm not the only one who notices. Several men walk in the vehicle's direction, and the man with whom I'm speaking looks in that direction as well.
"Please go back inside, Juliet," Rocker says, but his eyes are locked on the newcomer.
Flower deliveries are rare at the women's shelter, but they do happen. I've worked several places where abusers use deliveries like this to circumvent the protective order they're under with their partners. We can't stop the deliveries, even if we could, which we can't. We don't have the right to determine what a resident gets or doesn't get, including mail and other packages, even when we know it might be detrimental to their mental health or increase the likelihood that someone may choose to go back into an abusive relationship.
Also, some women have simply left their abusive partners without the aid or knowledge of law enforcement. Some abusers don't have criminal charges pending or court orders in place restricting their contact.
A woman walks around the front of the SUV, her hands holding a gorgeous bouquet.
The men block her path, using a slightly lighter approach than they did when Travis Shaw showed up a few days ago.
"Who is it for?" one man asks.
The woman shakes her head. "I don't know."
"Who is it from?" he asks.
"It doesn't have a card," she says. "It was an online order."
"I want the credit card information," the man demands.
"I don't have that information," she says, growing annoyed. "You'll have to contact the owner of the shop. I'm just delivering the damn thing."
The guy speaking with her turns and looks back at the house, and only then do I get a good look at what's in her hands.
My knees nearly buckle. I grab the door frame, my vision swimming so much that my stomach turns with nausea.
It isn't just a flower arrangement. It's my flower arrangement. A replica of the bouquet I carried when I married Graham.
I couldn't have forgotten what today was even if I tried.
Had we stayed married, today would be our fifteenth wedding anniversary.
Flashes of the day fill my mind. Graham insisted on marrying on a Monday rather than on the weekend. I thought it was strange, but looking back, and knowing just how controlling he was, I imagine he did it to inconvenience as many people as he possibly could. He knew there was no way someone he invited would turn down the invitation, and I have no doubt he would try to ruin anyone who did.