Husband by Choice. Tara Taylor Quinn
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because you didn’t see anyone doesn’t mean he wasn’t there.”
“What are you saying?”
“I know my wife. If she was going to leave me, she’d tell me to my face.” Kindly, no less. Meri was not only hot as hell, incredibly sexy, the mother of his child and the love of his life, she was also the nicest person he’d ever known.
“She did leave you.” There was no pity on Chantel’s face. But her concerned expression held more than just a cop’s distanced compassion. “That’s what I’m telling you.”
And he knew differently. Appearances could be deceiving.
“Meredith’s ex-husband was a fiend,” he said softly, as though Caleb might hear and understand what Max was saying. “He brutalized her, not only physically, but mentally, too. And got away with it because of the power his position gave him. I wish I knew more about him, but I gather he had a pretty impressive record with the Las Vegas police. I know he was older than she. Her family, both parents and a brother, were killed in a car accident when Meri was a kid. She was alone in the world. She grew up in a foster home. Met Steve through her foster parents. She married him at eighteen, and the first time he hit her was less than a year later. She stayed with him nine years.”
He’d have felt disloyal, telling Meri’s secrets, if Chantel had been just a friend. But she was a cop. And would help him find Meri.
Chantel and Max had spent four Christmases together. He trusted her. And had told Meri all about her.
“It took Steve less than three months to find her the first time she left. He was still a Las Vegas detective at that time. She got away almost immediately and managed to elude him almost a year that second time.”
Chantel’s eyes narrowed. “And you think this is the third time?”
He shook his head. “The third time was in Arizona. Five years ago.”
“This guy’s determined.” She sounded serious. All cop. And Max took his first easy breath in more than twenty-four hours.
Hold on, Meri.
Help is on the way.
* * *
DAY THREE.
It is night again. Friday night. Carly went to bed two hours ago. I heard Latoya turn off the television in the living room an hour later and then her door shut, too. It’s just the three of us in this bungalow. The three of us and the darkness.
It occurred to me last night that since my folks were killed when I was twelve, I’ve never had a room to myself. Ever. There were foster homes shared with other foster kids. And then there was Steve. And later, the other shelters, they were dorm room–style. As was the one dorm I was in between shelter one and shelter two. Between two and three was a one-room apartment shared with a shelter sister, and between three and four, a two-bedroom apartment shared with four sisters. After four, it was the YWCA. I’d wised up by then. I knew not to room with shelter sisters. Steve always knew how to find me. He might not find the exact shelter house I was in, or if he had, hadn’t been stupid enough to breach them. Much easier to be patient and wait for me to be out on my own. But he’d find the home office instead. And watch it. I’d leave the shelter when I was ready, get an apartment and by then, he’d already know of and be following women who came and went from the home office. By my continued association, he’d eventually find me. Took a lot of time. A lot of tedious waiting and watching.
Apparently I was worth the effort to him.
I actually thought changing my habit, going back to my legal name—something he’d never suspect—moving into a YWCA instead of an apartment—had finally won me my freedom. Or rather, I wanted so badly to believe....
I feel kind of silly writing this down. I know all of this stuff. But if I don’t make it through this attempt to stand up to him rather than run, to face him head on and somehow threaten or trick him into leaving me alone, I’d like to think that my journey might be of some benefit to someone else who is a victim of domestic violence.
Today’s group counseling session got me thinking about that. I guess because there were so many of us who are new here—including my two bungalow mates. Carly—she’s twenty-seven and was abused and then stalked by her boyfriend—has been here for a couple of weeks. Latoya just arrived yesterday. She’s in her forties, escaping her husband of twenty-four years, and I’m pretty sure this is the first time she’s ever sought help. Her youngest just left for college.
Carly’s external bruises have healed. The left side of Latoya’s face is still too swollen for us to know what she really looks like.
In counseling today Sara told us that it’s not just the few of us in shelters who feel so isolated—so cast apart. It’s one in four of those hundreds of women dropping their kids off at school every day, getting their nails done or walking the aisles in the grocery store.
I know this stuff.
And yet, today, I could feel the shock of the facts reverberate all the way through me. It was as though I’d heard them for the first time.
Or rather, I felt them for the first time. And I knew I had to do what I could to help. I will make my life matter. Even if I am at the end of my life.
I will share this, my attempt to fight back, with my sisters. In this diary. And maybe...someday...if Caleb wants to know more about his mama, someone will make these writings available to him.
What a comfort that thought is to me. I am writing to help Caleb understand me someday. To understand the challenge I faced and the choice I made. I am not deserting you, Caleb. I am not walking out on you.
You are not being abandoned! You are so loved, my little man. More than you will probably ever know. I need you to know that if I don’t make it through this, I am okay with that. I will die at peace because I died for you and your daddy. I died protecting you from a fiend I should never have brought into your lives.
I undertake this job with the assurance that if I leave this earthly life, I will be watching over both of you from above. I will always be around, loving you, protecting you. I need you to know that....
Tears dropped onto the pages and Jenna knew she had to stop. But although it was late, she still had many hours of darkness to endure. Her housemates were both in their rooms for the night. And if allowing Meredith to pour out her deepest heart, and some tears along with it, would help her—Jenna—to make it through the days, then so be it.
She was only human.
And so, with eyes blurring the script, she wrote long into the night. Completely sober, yet scribbling drunken-seeming avowals of the undying love she might never be able to express again. She wrote because she couldn’t sleep. She wrote to keep her sanity.
She wrote because she missed her men so much she wasn’t sure that she could stay on top of the pain.
* * *
WHEN MAX GOT home from work Friday night, Chantel was there. She’d spent the night in his home more times than he could count during his marriage to Jill. His and Jill’s spare room had been dubbed Chantel’s room. She’d kept a toothbrush and change of clothes there.
Her staying Thursday night had seemed a bit odd—and yet logical, too. There was no way he was going to send her out to find a hotel in Santa Raquel at midnight and it was even less acceptable to let her drive the three hours back to Las Sendas after spending the evening helping him try to track down Meri’s ex-husband. The guy had spent some time as an undercover cop. If he didn’t want to be found, finding him wasn’t going to be easy.
Chantel was offering him professional expertise on her own time. Because it was what Jill would have wanted.
She’d also cooked dinner for him and Caleb, as Max had discovered when he’d come into the house through the garage, his son on his hip, expecting to find a cold and deserted house, and finding, instead, a casserole in the oven and a plain-clothed cop poring