The Walls

by Hollie Overton

  Janice had married a Houston oil tycoon a year after Clifton’s sentencing. They’d settled down in the Woodlands and had three children, all girls, through a surrogate. Bearing her own children was simply too painful, she’d told a People magazine reporter.

  Kristy had spent hours reading everything on Clifton’s case. She didn’t know what came over her but she had to get out of this drab fluorescent room.

  “Hey, Carmen, can you cover for me if Gus comes looking?”

  “Sure, lady. Is everything okay?” Carmen asked.

  “Think I’ve got a migraine coming on,” Kristy lied.

  That first time Kristy drove to Grogan’s Point, the tony neighborhood where Janice and her new husband lived, she just wanted to see what it looked like, thought she might catch a glimpse of Janice. She didn’t see her that first day, but on nights when she could leave early without Lance knowing or when Carmen agreed to cover an execution, Kristy would drive through the neighborhood, looking through the windows of the million-dollar homes, wondering how many other people were living secret lives. Who were the abusers and who were the abused? How many magazine-worthy wedding photos had been framed and then removed, packed away in boxes?

  Kristy would park at the end of the cul-de-sac and wait. On a few occasions, she caught a glimpse of Janice. Now in her late forties, Janice kept herself lean and toned. Her honey-blond highlights were expertly done, hair perfectly blown out, clothing tailored to her in muted soft pastels, effortless and restrained. She was every inch a rich man’s wife. Janice’s daughters were eleven months, three, and five. She had a new life, appeared to be a devoted mother, smiling and making jokes as she wrangled her daughters from their car seat constraints. From what Kristy read, and the Internet told all, Janice’s new husband, William Conard, was pushing sixty, a jovial man with a hard-earned beer gut. By all appearances, they were loving parents, making a terrible tragedy into something beautiful. But no matter how much Kristy learned about Janice, the question remained—what sort of woman would kill her children, frame the husband, then go off and start a new life, a new family? And stay in the same town where the tragedy took place! If you believed Clifton, Janice was a sociopath who would do whatever it took to get revenge.

  Kristy couldn’t explain her obsession with Clifton and Janice. Sometimes thinking about their troubles made Kristy feel less alone, offered a distraction from her own life. After two weeks, Kristy had memorized Janice’s schedule. Perhaps if she looked closer, the truth would become clear.

  At home, Lance continued his domination. A knee to the stomach after Lance asked Kristy why she was late paying Ryan’s car insurance bill, a slam against the wall because she had insulted him by adding salt to his “perfectly seasoned steak.” When she thought about it, she had nothing to show the authorities but a few bruises and bumps, no injuries that would ensure Lance would be locked up for more than a night or two.

  She thought about recording Lance, but he constantly monitored her phone. “Darlin’, just wanted to make sure you have enough battery,” he would say, then spend five minutes reading all her texts and e-mails.

  She had no idea what to do about Lance, but her obsession with Janice continued. Every day now, she found herself making a detour, driving by Janice’s house. It was ridiculous. What was Janice going to do? Walk out and say, “I did it! Clifton is innocent”? But Kristy couldn’t stop herself. Sometimes she’d leave work early and just stare into the windows of the mansions, wondering how you could ever know the truth about anyone.

  One evening, Kristy lingered a little too long, expecting Janice and her daughters to return from gymnastics. She didn’t even realize how late it was until her phone beeped—a text from Lance.

  I just got home. No food. Where are you?

  Shit. Kristy hadn’t planned to stay this long. Now traffic was going to be bumper-to-bumper and if she stopped to pick up groceries, she would be even later. She headed back home, the dread growing with each passing mile. Kristy tried to think of an appropriate excuse to tell Lance, an excuse that might engender sympathy instead of outrage.

  An inmate tried to escape. That’s what she would tell him, hoping his anger would dissipate. Though there was always the risk that he might call Gus and demand to know all the details. He might even threaten to sue the state for putting his wife in danger. Kristy’s mind was still spinning when she pulled into the driveway and hurried inside.

  Seated at the kitchen table, his laptop propped open, a beer in his hand, Lance glared over at Kristy, a charged atmosphere in the air.

  “Where’s Ryan?” Kristy asked, hoping he would come bounding up the stairs, that he might serve as a buffer to defuse Lance’s temper.

  “He’s studying at Ella’s,” Lance said flatly.

  “And Pops?” she asked, a slight tremor in her voice.

  “He had a headache, so I gave him a sleeping tablet,” Lance said.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “Where have you been?” Lance asked. Kristy calmly set her purse down on the counter, keeping her voice casual and light, hurrying over to give him a kiss, adjusting her excuse on the fly.

  “There was an issue with one of the inmates in the mental health ward. He filed a complaint against some guards and a bunch of reporters were calling,” Kristy said, thinking on her feet.

  “That goddamn job,” he said. Lance only complained about Kristy’s job when he was upset. When he wasn’t, he told her she should keep climbing the ladder. “Lots of good benefits working for the state,” he’d say. But tonight her job had taken too much of Kristy’s attention and Lance couldn’t stand that.

  “So you didn’t think about me or Pops, or the fact that there’s no goddamn food in this house?”

  “I did. I planned to go to the store and then I got stuck at work, but I’ll whip you up something. Just give me five minutes,” Kristy pleaded, turning toward the fridge. If she could appease him, just for tonight, tomorrow she’d pull back the curtain and reveal the monster behind it. She had gone too far and was losing herself. It wasn’t just her obsession with Janice. It was hearing herself and not recognizing her own voice. She’d wait until Lance left for work and then she would sit Pops and Ryan down and tell them everything. They’d come up with a plan together. But she was done. Kristy couldn’t live like this. Not anymore. All she had to do was get through tonight.

  Lance held on to Kristy’s hands. He began to squeeze, harder and harder. Kristy cried out, her knees buckling from the pressure point.

  “You think I’m a joke? Is that what this is?”

  “No, Lance. Of course not.”

  “You do. You think I’m a fucking joke. I see how you’re looking at me.”

  Even though Ryan was gone and Pops was likely fast asleep, Kristy looked toward the back of the house. “Never drop your gaze,” Lance once said. What an amateur move.

  She turned just in time to see Lance’s fist coming toward her, a pummeling blow that landed on the side of her skull and sent her staggering backward.

  Ears ringing, vision blurred, Kristy began to run but Lance stopped her, tugging on Kristy’s ponytail and dragging her through the kitchen. Panic set in. Lance was dragging her to the front door. She’d read enough about assaults and murders to know that once a perpetrator moved locations, especially if they were isolated, your chances of survival diminished.

  “Lance, please, don’t do this. Let’s talk …”

  “Don’t tell me what to fucking do.”

  He shoved her out the front door. Kristy fell, then scrambled to her feet, still woozy, adrenaline pumping, blood roaring in her head. There were no homes, no neighbors for miles, no one to see their ugly domestic melodrama unfolding. Lance dragged Kristy toward her pickup and shoved her into the cab. He climbed inside, slamming the door closed, and reached across the passenger’s side to lock it.

  “You move a muscle and you’re dead,” he growled.

  He fired up the truck and made his way down the long, winding back ro
ads. Those same roads that once seemed romantic were now terrifying, their isolation ensuring no one would ever hear her screams.

  Should she grab the door handle and take her chances? What if she threw herself from the speeding truck? How badly would she be injured? Would she survive the fall only to have Lance run her down? God, the last thing she wanted was Pops and Ryan identifying her body. No. She had to keep fighting.

  “Lance, you’re not thinking. If you’d just stop and we can talk,” she said, but he wasn’t listening, his mouth set in an angry, unrepentant scowl. Kristy’s ears were ringing, making it impossible to focus on where they were going. She lost track of where they were, the truck making endless turns down pitch-black back roads, gravel spinning and crunching under the wheels. She lost consciousness for a while, jolting awake when she heard Lance throw the truck into park.

  She couldn’t see the road, her view obscured by a dense cluster of sinister-looking pine trees. Lance opened the truck door and wrenched her arm, practically slinging her out of the truck, his fingers digging into her collarbone. Kristy tried to kick, scratch, and claw at him, but Lance deftly avoided each of her attempted attacks.

  Hyperventilating, she tried to think of the instructions she’d heard in the safety courses she’d been required to take, ways to disarm your opponent, words to reach him. She opened her mouth to speak just as Lance kicked her, his steel-toed Tony Lama cowboy boot pummeling her abdomen. Kristy groaned, two more kicks coming in quick succession.

  “If you really love me, you’ll stop,” Kristy said, her body covered in pine needles and dirt, the blood and tears mingling. Lance knelt down, stroking her hair.

  “This isn’t what I wanted, Kristy. This isn’t the way it should be. I just want us to be happy. Why do you make that so impossible? Ryan is a good kid. Pops doesn’t cause trouble. But you … you’re always making things hard for us.”

  “I’m not, Lance. What have I ever done but try to make you happy?” she asked, every word an effort.

  Lance never answered, blinking over and over again, that blank stare signaling their conversation was over. Her mind raced through all the judo moves she’d studied. Ate waza or atemi waza, all aimed at targeting vital points on an opponent. These techniques were generally forbidden, deemed potentially fatal by those who practiced this type of martial arts. She couldn’t say which move exactly Lance used. All she saw was his hand coming toward her with lightning-fast speed. Kristy’s scream caught in her throat and then there was nothing but blackness.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Blood. That’s the first thing Kristy smelled when she came to, the same metallic, bitter smell that she couldn’t escape for days after she discovered Clifton lying on the prison floor. She swallowed hard. Gagging, Kristy coughed, the thick red liquid staining her shirt. That was good, she told herself. She wasn’t dead. Not yet anyway. Kristy blinked furiously, trying to orient herself, searching in the pitch black for Lance, her entire body aching. Was he still here, lurking in the shadows? Had he left or had he stuck around, thinking up more ways to humiliate and punish her before he killed her?

  “Shh, darlin’, you’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be all right.”

  Kristy heard Lance’s slow, soothing drawl and froze. Her eyes focused in the dark. She wasn’t on the ground anymore. She was back in the passenger’s seat of her pickup, except now the front end was crumpled, smoke pouring from the radiator. He’d driven it to a different location, that much she could decipher, but Kristy had no clue where they were. She shifted her body to get a better look at her injuries, trying to assess what was going on. Lance pulled her in close, arms gently caressing her.

  “I’m sorry I had to do this, darlin’. But I need you to listen,” Lance said.

  “I’m listening, Lance,” Kristy whispered. “I’ve been listening.”

  Kristy tried to sit up but her entire body spasmed, white-hot pain shooting through her abdomen. Lance rocked her, as if she were a baby, the same way she’d once rocked Ryan.

  “Shh … this is your time to listen. I want things to be good with us, Kris. Like they were those first few months.”

  “I wanted that, Lance. I did.”

  “You’re talking like it’s past tense.”

  “I can’t do this anymore,” she said. “I can’t live like this. I won’t do this anymore,” she said, almost to herself. Lance had to know there was no future for them. Not after this.

  His entire body went rigid, his contrite expression turned blank. He nodded his head over and over again, like a businessman listening to the details of a hostile takeover. With lightning-quick reflexes, Lance gripped Kristy’s neck, squeezing her trachea. A chokehold. Kristy knew she would lose consciousness again if Lance pressed just a little harder.

  “It would be interesting, wouldn’t it, if Ryan just disappeared one day. Happens all the time. They’d say he was a troubled kid. Got suspended for fighting. Nearly arrested. And poor Frank, with his failing health, God knows that losing his grandson might be enough to send him over the edge. Maybe one day he just stops breathing.”

  Kristy’s hands clawed at Lance’s face. He loosened his grip ever so slightly and she sucked in air; then he tightened it again.

  “Darlin’, you need to listen very carefully and rethink your previous statement. We’re together now. We said vows. We made promises, and those are promises I don’t intend on ever breaking. Not ever. What happens next is simple. I need to know you’re paying attention. Are you paying attention? I need to hear you say it.”

  He released his grasp.

  “I’m paying attention,” Kristy croaked.

  “Good. I’m going to leave here. It should take me twenty minutes to walk back to the house. Wait another ten and call 911. Tell them you were in an accident. I’ll do my best to make sure Ryan and Pops are taken care of. If I don’t get a call, I can’t guarantee what will happen to either of them. Understand?”

  She nodded. “Here,” Lance said, “I’ll set the alarm on your phone. When it goes off, you call.”

  Tears and snot poured down Kristy’s face. Ryan and Pops. He’d threatened the people closest to her in the world. She needed to get to them, to warn them, but Kristy couldn’t move, and Lance … he was serious. She had no doubt about that. Lance opened the truck door and scooted out.

  “I love you, darlin’, and I’ll see you soon.”

  Lance’s gaze lingered on Kristy. She could see it in his eyes. In Lance’s mind, all of this was her own fault and he … pitied her. Lance placed her cell phone in her hands and slammed the truck door. Her head was aching; even keeping her eyes open was a struggle.

  Kristy wanted to defy Lance, but what if she didn’t follow orders and it cost Ryan and Pops their lives? Knowing that Lance was waiting for her to call, Kristy pulled herself over to the driver’s side, wincing the entire time. Lance had definitely broken her ribs. She looked down at her bloodstained blouse. Her pickup was wrecked beyond repair. Before tonight, she had been scared of Lance. Not anymore. Now she was fucking pissed. No one threatened her family. No one.

  If Lance thought this would break her, he was wrong. She wasn’t going to sit by and let him destroy everything she cared about. She would go head-to-head with Lance, and let the best man win.

  Right now she had to cooperate. She needed medical treatment, needed to make sure that Ryan and Pops were okay. She must have dozed off because the alarm on her cell phone brought her back. She tentatively gripped the phone, and dialed. She would follow Lance’s instructions to the letter.

  “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

  “Hello … hello, can you hear me? I need help.”

  “Ma’am, it’s okay. Take a deep breath and tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I’ve … I’ve been in an accident.”

  “Okay, ma’am. Are you injured?”

  “Yes. It’s my ribs and my head … my airbag exploded. I’m … I … I need help.”

  “Okay, do you know whe
re you are?”

  Kristy hadn’t asked. She had no idea.

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Okay, sit tight. We’re going to triangulate your cell phone location and we’ll be sending out an ambulance. What’s your name?”

  “It’s Kristy. Kristy Dobson.”

  “Okay, Kristy, hang in there. We’re gonna get you some help.”

  Kristy closed her eyes, listening to the operator offer up standard platitudes.

  “Stay on the line … You’re just fine … We’re coming.”

  The operator repeated Kristy’s name over and over again. “We have to keep you awake. That’s important, Kristy. Okay?”

  “Okay. Okay,” Kristy repeated back, fighting the wave of exhaustion.

  She ran through her options. What might happen if she told the police what Lance had done to her?

  My husband is a highly trained martial artist who batters me constantly. He threatened the lives of my son and my father in order to control me. He did this to me. He made it look like an accident.

  She tried to imagine the face of the bored redneck cop. He might believe Kristy’s story. It was so outlandish, who could possibly make it up? Maybe she’d get a restraining order, a flimsy piece of paper that would do nothing to stop Lance. Or maybe the cop would agree that a firm approach was the only way to keep the “little lady” in line. Kristy wanted to believe in the system but it failed people all the time. Pamela Whitaker. Clifton Harris. Who knew how many others Kristy didn’t even know about. Even if Lance were arrested and charged, he’d make bail. Then what? She couldn’t keep Pops and Ryan safe 24/7.