The chime on her phone alerted her of motion on her front step. Had he come back? So soon?

She started for the door but then thinking better of it, she stopped and took her phone out of her purse. It had two chimes—one for motion and the other for when the doorbell rang. The doorbell rang. She hadn’t locked the door yet. The sun was just going down and it wasn’t dark. It must be Beau, she thought. Perhaps he forgot something. She looked at her phone.

She saw it was Brad. He had found her. He was fidgeting impatiently. She put her phone down and crept closer to the door. “What do you want, Brad?” she asked.

He pounded on the door. “Open the damn door, Lauren.”

“This isn’t a good time,” she yelled.

As she reached for the lock he opened the door and stormed in. “So that’s how it is,” he said, scowling. “It’s not about our marriage. It’s about a man.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“I saw you,” he said. “You were with a man!”

Poor Brad. He was so completely self-absorbed he didn’t even recognize Beau, whom he had met. She frowned and backed away. “He’s a neighbor, Brad. He hung some shelves for me and I bought him a beer and sliders at the pub down the street.”

“It looked pretty cozy to be just a neighbor,” he said, approaching her rapidly.

“You’re crazy. It wasn’t cozy at all. It was—”

Lightning fast, he reached out and pinched her upper arm.

“Ouch! Don’t do that!” she exclaimed. But he pinched the other arm. “Stop it!” she shouted and she tried pushing his hands away.

He grabbed her wrists. “The most stupid thing you can do right now is lie to me!”

“Get out,” she said. “Get out right now or I’ll call the police!”

He laughed at her. “And what hand are you going to use to do that, Lauren? Huh? You know no one ever believes you because you’re a liar and a lunatic and sometimes you’re delusional.”

“You’re hurting me! Let go of me!”

With just the powerful grip of his hands around her wrists, he shook her. “You’ll be sorry,” he growled. “I’ll make sure you’re sorry.” He let go of one wrist to slap her, first the left cheek and then the right. And then to her shock, he curled up his fist and cold-cocked her, right in the cheek and eye. She hit her head on the breakfast bar on the way down. When she was down he said, “You’re just a stupid whore.” And he kicked her in the face. She managed to draw her hands over her face to protect herself somewhat but she felt it in her teeth. Then she felt herself fade out.

She was only out for a moment, she thought. She opened one eye and saw that the front door was standing open. She looked at her hands; they’d been trying to cover her face and now were covered with blood. She could hear birds, unless that was ringing in her ears. She could see the slant of the setting sun. She pulled herself to her feet. Everything hurt. Her head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds and she could taste blood in her mouth.

She grabbed her phone and the hand towel from the counter and slowly moved to the couch. The new couch. She mustn’t get blood on the new couch, but she had to sit down. He’d never done that before. He had pinched her, embarrassed her, shoved her, tripped her, verbally abused her, but he’d never slugged her or kicked her. But then, as Cassie made her see, she’d been in denial about what physical abuse really was. How much of that is too much?

She dialed 911.

“Emergency,” the operator said.

“Help,” she said, spitting blood. “I’ve been assaulted.” She gave the address three times because her words were garbled.

“Do you need an ambulance?”

“I don’t know. I need the police. Maybe medical assistance...”

“Is the assailant still in the house?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I might’ve lost consciousness. He kicked me in the face. In the mouth. I can feel it in my teeth...”

“Help is on the way, ma’am. Stay on the line with me until they get there...”

“Do you think he was going to kill me? He was going to kill me, I think...”

“Stay with me...”

“I’m passing out, I think...”

“Hang in there. You’ll hear sirens in a moment. Tell me when you hear sirens...”

* * *

The police and medical arrived at almost the same time. She tried to imagine all the flashing lights on her quiet little street. While paramedics assisted her, did a cursory medical exam and provided an ice pack, one of two police officers asked her if she knew who the assailant was.

“My husband,” she slurred. “Dr. Brad Delaney. We’re separated. He lives in Mill Valley. He’s angry.”

“No kidding,” the paramedic muttered. “We’re going to start an IV, just to keep a vein open in case you need drugs. We’re going to transport.”

“Is that really necessary?” she asked. “I’m starting to feel better...”

“No reason to take chances with a head injury. And I think we should check for facial bone damage.”

“My teeth feel loose. Do I have all of them? Are they whole?”

“I think they’ll make it, but you have to go to the ER.”

“Ma’am,” the officer said. “Did anyone besides you and your husband witness this assault?”

She held out her phone. He recognized what she was showing him—the doorbell camera and speaker. While the door stood open, the sounds of Brad growling at her, threatening her and Lauren begging him to stop hurting her were loud and clear. The sound of him hitting and kicking her were clear. The image and audio recording would last for up to seven days, but she could save it now.

Typical Brad. They had closed circuit security at their Mill Valley home but he must not have considered that Lauren might have it at this old Victorian. He thought no one would ever know...

“I think we’re going to have to have this phone,” he said.

“No, you don’t,” she said. “You can dump everything on this phone if you want to but I need it. It’s the only way I can reach people who will help me now, and there is no house phone here. I can email you this image and recording right now.”

“That would help, if I’m going to pick him up.”

“What are you going to do with him?” she asked.

“He’s going to jail, ma’am. There are two offenses for which at least twelve hours in jail is mandatory—DUI and battery domestic. One, so the offender can sober up and is no longer a menace on the road and the other, so the victim can ensure his or her safety.”

“So he’ll be in jail all night?”

“I can assure you,” the young officer said.

“Even if he’s a very rich surgeon with a bunch of lawyers?” she asked.

“Even if,” the cop said.

“Here,” she said. “Email this to yourself.”

“You’re not going to beg me to leave him alone?” the officer asked.

“No,” she said. “Take him to jail.”

“What’s going on?” Beau shouted from the door. “What the hell? Where’s Lauren? Lauren!”

She was already on the gurney, sitting upright, holding the ice pack on her face. Beau was pushing his way through the paramedics and the two police officers instinctively grabbed his arms, holding him back.

“Let me go!” he said. “Let me see her! What happened to her?”

Lauren lowered the ice pack.

“Jesus,” he said, looking at her weakly.

“Let him go,” she garbled. “He’s a friend and neighbor.”

He rushed to her. “What happened? Who did this?” he kept his voice soft.

“I think you know,” she said, her speech slurred.

* * *

Beau followed the ambulance to the hospital and paced in the waiting room while Lauren was with doctors and nurses.

Lauren was in the ER for three hours, holding an ice pack to her mouth and cheek. She had stitches inside her mouth where her teeth had cut her lip and she felt swollen from her neck up. Her CT scan was negative—no fractures of the skull or facial bones. At almost midnight one of the officers who had come to her house returned to the ER. He spoke quietly with the doctor before approaching her bed. She was sitting up, getting ready to make her escape as soon as the paperwork and insurance nonsense was complete.

“So, it’s going to be okay, I’m told,” the officer said. “You’ll heal and maybe get better locks?”

“I have good locks,” she said, but she sounded more like I hab goo wocks.

“Your husband has been cited, arrested and taken to booking, but is there somewhere you can stay or someone who can stay with you?”

“I’m going home,” she blubbered. “He’s obviously not coming back. I’m a mess.”

“That guy is still in the waiting room,” the officer said. “Is he someone you can trust?”

“He’s a neighbor. I’ve known him a few months and he’s been helpful and kind. He’s still here, huh?”

“Waiting to see you, I guess. Hopefully take you home...”

“That’s nice. I can get a cab if he wants to get home.”

“I wish you weren’t going to be alone. Your husband is a piece of work. He tried to convince us you did this to yourself. The problem with that story was that when we found him, he was icing his hand.”

A huff escaped her. “His precious hands. Insured for millions...”

“Then there’s the recording. So he tried saying it was your boyfriend...”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” she said. “The man out there is a new friend. Not that new.” She groaned and said, “I met him at church.”

“Your husband’s voice on the recording is recognizable,” the officer said. “Is there someone who can stay with you? You should contact a family member. This is a traumatic injury. You might get home and realize you wish you weren’t alone and the doctor says you can’t drive. Not for at least twenty-four hours. As a precaution.”