Breaking Free

by Jennifer Slattery

  Trent stared at her, his eyes hard. “Or what.”

  “Or I’m gone. And I’ll take the kids with me.”

  “Quit with the threats already.”

  It was only a threat until she put feet to her words.

  Leaving could cost her everything, much more than her marriage. Because everyone knew good Christian women didn’t get divorced.

  But maybe she was tired of playing the saint.

  CHAPTER 16

  Alice sat in her usual spot in the far corner of the couch with her feet tucked under her. The opened window behind her allowed a gentle breeze to tickle the ends of her hair. A steaming cup of chamomile tea sat on the end table. And next to that, a list of options, which felt few. Her biggest stumbling block? Fear. She’d never really been on her own before. Had gone straight from her parents to college to marriage. And as bad as things were between her and Trent, the uncertainty of what lay ahead, should she leave, paralyzed her. Because once she took that step, she knew there’d be no undoing it.

  Stillness settled in the house, pressing in around her. Danny was at a friend’s for the night and Tim went to a Mariner’s game with some soccer buddies. And Trent—she had no idea where he was. Nor did she care.

  Maybe if she told herself that often enough, she’d begin to believe it.

  But she’d get over him, in time.

  If only she knew what to do from here. She had no way to support herself. Maybe she’d get alimony, but that’d take time, right? She could tell Trent to leave, most likely initiating a scene. And what if he refused to go? What if she waited, went back to school, maybe got a job and started saving up money?

  That could take months. Could she really live this way that long?

  Closing her eyes, she rubbed her temples. She didn’t have the energy to think about that right now. She grabbed the television remote and flipped through the channels, hoping something would capture her attention and help her forget about the drama that had become her life.

  A knock sounded at the door. After a quick glance at the clock, she leaned over the back of the couch and peered through the long, rectangular window behind her. A dark car parked along the side of the road. She couldn’t make out the model—not that she’d know. But it didn’t look like a car Tim or Danny’s friends would drive.

  She pressed her palms against the windowsill and raised a notch to get a better view of the front stoop. Two men with broad shoulders and block-like chests stood on the stoop dressed in dark clothing. They had short hair, crew-cut short, and wore what appeared to be, in the dim lighting, black clothing.

  It was too late for salesman.

  Did those men have anything to do with the phone number written on the napkin, and the male voice it belonged to? Staring into the kitchen, she eyed her cell on the counter.

  Should she open the door? They were probably at the wrong house. Maybe one of her neighbors was having a gathering or something.

  Three more knocks, louder this time.

  “I’ve got it, honey.” She spoke loudly, hopefully so the guys outside would hear her and assume she was talking to a man. “Just a minute.” She dashed into the kitchen and grabbed a spray can of Lysol to use as makeshift mace, if necessary. Then, finger on the ready, she opened the door partway.

  “Can I help you?”

  The men looked her up and down, their eyes cold.

  “You Alice Goddard, Trent Goddard’s wife?” asked the one on the right, a short guy with a boxy torso and pointed ears.

  Swallowing, she nodded. “Can I help you?”

  “Tell him his buddies stopped by. And that we’re looking forward to seeing him again real soon. Real soon.” He dragged the last part out, rubbing his fist with his other hand.

  “Who are you?”

  “Oh, he’ll know.” The men gave a crooked smile then left.

  Alice closed the door then returned to the couch, a shiver running through her. There was something strange about those men. Something . . . unsettling.

  What was Trent up to? She intended to find out, somehow. Regardless of what happened with their marriage—or more accurately, when and how soon she left him, because she was leaving—she needed to know. Something a woman said on an old talk show swept through Alice’s mind: You need to build up your case, so you have ammunition once you go to court.

  She wasn’t that spiteful, but she did need to be prepared.

  Another hour ticked by. She froze, holding her breath, when a vehicle eased into her drive. A door slammed and footfalls ascended the stairs. Keys clanked in the lock. Releasing a puff of air, she allowed her shoulders to slump forward. Tim was home. Or Trent. But more likely, Tim.

  She wiped her hands on her thighs and crossed the living room. Turning the corner into the foyer, she froze in midstep and watched Tim stagger past her. He swayed, using his arms to steady himself. She stumbled backward.

  “Have you been drinking?” Stupid question, but the one that came out.

  He laughed and pushed past her, mumbling profanities.

  “Don’t walk away from me.” She followed half a step behind, flinching when he slammed his door in her face. A second later, loud music shook the walls.

  She stormed in and snapped off his radio. “Pay attention when I’m talking to you.”

  Tim’s eyes flashed and a hard grin spread across his face. He stood, towering over her. “What’re you gonna do? Turn me over your knee and spank me?”

  CHAPTER 17

  Trent was late to the Monday morning staff meeting. Very late. Intentionally late. His meeting with the Peak Performance guys hadn’t gone well. Understatement of the year. Mr. Lowe would be breathing down his neck, expecting answers, but Trent didn’t have any to give. If he had half a brain, he’d turn around, get back in his car, and head home. But he needed this job, even if Mr. Lowe reduced him to a grunt man. Which would happen in about an hour and a half, if not sooner.

  The thick mahogany door leading to the conference room and the soundproof glass flanking it prevented him from hearing the conversation inside. But based on the nervously twitching faces lining the oblong table, this was far from a morning pep talk. And the tension level would soon raise a notch.

  He released a burst of air through tight lips, straightened his tie, and threw open the door. Entering inside with feigned confidence, he tried to avoid making contact with all the eyes that latched onto him like a pack of wolves. Apparently, news of his campaign bombing had circulated the break room. And the cocky smirks on a few faces reminded him of his precarious position as high man on the totem pole.

  He scanned the room, locating the last available chair. Unfortunately, getting to it would be anything but inconspicuous. It stood at the far end of the table between Reba and an intern.

  Mr. Lowe sat three feet from the door. His eyes, narrowed beneath pinched brows, locked on Trent.

  Trent offered a slight nod. Heat rose in his neck sending his sweat glands into overdrive as he made his way around the table. Sitting, he lifted his chin and flipped open his briefcase. He sifted through the stack of papers inside.

  Lucky for him, Mr. Lowe hated public demonstrations and would wait until they were alone to annihilate him. That’d give Trent plenty of time to create a diversion of some kind, and perhaps even come up with a believable story to account for his tardiness. And for his major fail with the Peak Performance Foods account.

  Mr. Lowe cleared his throat. Trent stared at his thick, wrinkled lips, purposefully avoiding his cold blue eyes.

  “As many of you know, we have been working with Cyber Executives for ten years now, which in turn has led to an influx of business, including our most recent, lucrative account with Peak Performance Foods, among others.”

  Trent shifted and stared at the table.

  “This morning I received a phone call from Mr. Lexington, the vice president of advertising and public relations. He informed me that he will be terminating our contract, effective immediately.”

  Trent�
�s mouth went dry. He wanted to hurl. Gasps and hushed whispers surrounded him.

  “I suspect they’ll be taking half of our current clientele with them.” Mr. Lowe’s commanding voice quieted the room. “And when word gets out to the rest of our clients, which it is sure to do”—Mr. Lowe pressed his palms into the glass tabletop and leaned forward—“I am certain many more will be close behind.”

  More gasps, punctuated by verbal protests.

  Mr. Lowe continued, but Trent stopped listening. One look at his boss’s blotchy face and hot eyes said it all. He was fired.

  And dead. Bruce would tear him limb from limb. Trent needed to find a way to get money. Fast.

  As soon as Mr. Lowe closed the meeting, Trent grabbed his briefcase and sprang to his feet. He hoped to make a quick exit before anyone cornered him, but unfortunately, Rick jumped up and blocked his way.

  “Trent, my man. Get a chance to hit a bank yet? ’Cause I told the fellas I’d get them the money you owe them.”

  He swallowed. He looked from one face to the next as everyone milled out of the conference room—anything to avoid Rick’s gaze.

  “Yeah, sure.” He stepped aside and inched toward the door. Retrieving his wallet, he pretended to go through it then threw his hands in the air. “Oh, man. I totally forgot! I gave all my cash to Alice this morning.”

  Rick frowned.

  “I’ll stop by the bank tonight.” Trent spoke quickly. “Tomorrow at the latest.”

  Rick’s scowl deepened as he studied Trent. Then his face relaxed. “All right. Tomorrow then.”

  “Will do, my man. Will do.” He gave him a hearty pat on the back and then hurried out of room, down the hall, and toward the elevator that led to the parking garage.

  A woman in a coral blouse and khaki skirt sat in the reception area flipping through print work samples. Cherice, Mr. Lowe’s secretary, spoke on the phone. She smiled as Trent approached. He nodded and dashed to the elevator.

  When the metal doors closed, he fell against the back wall and brought his hands to his face. He massaged his temples fiercely as a stabbing pain shot across the back of his eyes.

  The elevator doors opened to a dark parking garage smelling of exhaust fumes. His car was parked in the far right corner next to a shiny blue Lexus. A man in a blue suit carrying a brown leather briefcase got out of an SUV and gave Trent a passing nod. Dipping his head in acknowledgement, Trent continued to his car and fell inside.

  The sharp pain in his skull increased as he eased his vehicle around curve after curve, following the bright red exit signs toward the busy street. Heading south, he drove aimlessly around skyscrapers and glass buildings as if in a trance.

  The light turned red. He pulled to a stop and reached into his glove box. The tension in his neck and spine eased as his fingers latched onto the full bottle of Scotch hidden behind the car manual. After a quick scan for cops, he unscrewed the lid with trembling hands and brought the bottle to his mouth. He took four gulps before screwing the lid back on.

  The light changed to green. He accelerated, jerking the car forward. His cell phone rang sometime between Front Street and Commercial, but the sound barely registered.

  An hour—and a quarter of a bottle of Scotch later—he pulled into an empty carport and staggered up his front walk. Reaching for the door handle with key in hand, his eyes widened when it swung open. Had Alice forgotten to lock it? An image of Jay’s jagged face flashed through his mind and sent bile shooting up the back of his throat, but the house was quiet. Inching his way toward the living room, he clamped his mouth shut and forced his raspy breath through his nostrils.

  Adrenaline moved him to full alert as he paused at the end of the hall and strained his ears for the slightest sound of movement. Silence. Laughing at the extent of his paranoia, he threw open the hallway closet door, reached behind a navy wool jacket, and pulled out a suitcase. He brought it to the bedroom and hoisted it onto the bed.

  His heart ached as he removed his shirts from the closet and stuffed them into the suitcase. Memories flashed through his mind—of him and the boys playing catch. Of him and Alice dancing under a Hawaiian moon on their seventh anniversary. Of all of them squished in the back of the van laughing as they gorged on popcorn and watched an animated movie play across a drive-in movie screen. Shaking his head, he closed his eyes on the memories. Those days were long gone.

  He had to leave. No other options made sense. It was for the best—for Alice and the boys.

  In route to his sock drawer, he paused in front of the dresser to inspect a picture of Alice. It appeared to be recent. She sat, torso caved forward, on a park bench watching a young girl with auburn hair feed ducks. He picked it up and studied her lifeless expression. She looked so broken, empty.

  Oh, Alice, what have I done?

  He turned the picture over. His chest tightened as he stared at the message scribbled on the back: “Trent, I hope you enjoy the photo I took as much as I enjoyed taking it. You have a very lovely wife. Jay.”

  The image dropped from his trembling hand and fluttered to the floor. This was a warning. Jay was watching—him, his family, Alice. Most likely their house. Trent stepped backward and fell against the bed.

  CHAPTER 18

  Friday night, Alice watched through the window as Trent’s car eased out of the driveway and down the street. When he turned the corner, she hurried into the bedroom. No more playing games. She needed to find out, once and for all, what was going on. Closing the door behind her, she paused to still a wave of nausea before beginning her search.

  She started with Trent’s top drawer but found nothing of value. A few toothpicks, some buttons, and a couple of receipts lay scattered beneath the mess of unmatched socks. Searching his T-shirt drawer proved futile as well. Moving on to his closet, she sifted through various shoeboxes lining the shelf.

  They contained old movie stubs, a rusted railroad spike Trent found in Oklahoma while they were on a multiday biking trip, and other random items that should have softened Alice’s heart but only served as painful reminders of how far they had fallen. The half empty vodka bottle tucked in the far corner didn’t surprise her.

  She returned the boxes and moved on to a row of pants that hung next to a bunch of ties. She went through the pockets one by one. More receipts and a wadded up tissue, but other than that, nothing. Faded blue jeans dangled from a hook in the far back corner. Trent wore them the night before—the night he came home smelling like a sour pickle—like always.

  Grabbing the pants, she searched the right front pocket, finding lint. From the left pocket, she retrieved a book of matches from a place called The Spiny Cactus.

  She tucked the matches in her pocket and resumed her search. When she got to the back pockets, her fingers brushed against a neatly folded piece of paper. She pulled it out and read the address written in blue ink, followed by the words: Saturday, 9:00. She studied the rough handwriting. The small, blockish letters looked masculine. Backing into the bed, she sat on the mattress edge, her eyes locked on the tiny slip of paper until the numbers blurred together.

  I don’t know what you’re trying to hide, Trent Goddard, but I’m about to find out.

  Standing on Ed’s stoop, Trent glanced at the empty driveway and closed garage. Hopefully Beth wasn’t home. That would only make things harder. As if begging your friend for money wasn’t hard enough, not that Ed raked in the dough. But he certainly had more than Trent, enough to get him by until his final paycheck came in anyway.

  He would have ditched, taken what little he had left and headed as far away from Jay and his thugs as possible, if it hadn’t been for that photo Jay left on the dresser. This wasn’t just about him anymore. Jay had made sure of that.

  Lifting his chin, Trent knocked three times.

  Footsteps approached, and the door swung open.

  “Trent.” Ed stood in the entryway with raised eyebrows. “Good to see you.” He studied Trent a moment before moving aside. “Come in.”


  He led the way to the living room.

  Trent followed a few steps behind studying various objects and knickknacks. He calculated the value of each. A blue and green glass vase stood on the mantel next to two long white candles. Probably from the local home goods store. A Wyland acrylic of a breaching whale stood on the end table next to what appeared to be a Tiffany lamp. Worth some. A set of car keys lay on the half wall separating the living room from the entryway.

  Ed sat on the edge of a leather recliner and motioned for Trent to sit in the couch across from him. “You OK?”

  “Yeah . . . I mean . . . no.” Trent’s ears burned.

  “What can I do for you?”

  Trent stared at the maroon carpet in front of him. “I need money.” He looked up in time to see Ed’s face fall.

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “What’s going on?”

  Trent shifted. “I got myself into trouble.” How much should he tell him? No matter what he said, Ed wouldn’t understand.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I . . .” Trent cleared his throat. “I wish I could explain . . .”

  “How much are we talking?”

  “How much can you spare?” He felt like a strung-out doper begging for a hit. But it wasn’t like that. He needed to do this—for Alice and the boys.

  Ed stood and walked over to a small accent table tucked behind a long leather couch. He opened the top drawer and pulled out his checkbook and a pen. His hand moved fast as he filled it out. He tore it off and handed it over.

  It was less than Trent had hoped for, but better than nothing. “Thanks.” He looked down. “I’ll pay you back.”

  Ed started to sit when his phone rang.

  “Ed Martin.”

  Trent sank into the couch cushions and waited for an opportunity to politely excuse himself.

  “The Newman account?” Ed’s brow furrowed. “I don’t have the figures on hand. Can I call you back later? I understand. OK, fine. Give me a minute.” He stood and offered Trent a tight-lipped smile. “Excuse me. Apparently my boss wants me to find four-year-old documents I probably shredded two years ago.” With a sigh, Ed strolled down the hall toward his office.