The kettle screamed, and he lifted her off his lap and set her back on her chair. He flexed and clenched his hands. Only seconds ago, he had massaged the skin millimeters above the child growing inside of her. He went to quiet the boiling kettle, staring down at it as if the answers to what the hell he was supposed to do would somehow materialize in the puffs of steam.
“I know what scares you,” she said after a long beat of silence.
He didn’t turn around. He couldn’t. If he looked into her eyes, he’d be a goner.
“It’s your father. You’ve been running from him your entire life, haven’t you?”
His chest tightened as he turned to face her. The taste of bile flooded his mouth. “How about we talk about what scares you? You broke down at the sight of a package on your doorstep. You were near hysterical. Do you want to explain that reaction to me?”
“I can’t.”
Nick shook his head and narrowed his eyes. “Just like you can’t tell me who the hell the father of your child is or why you whimper and call out in your sleep like a beaten dog.”
“I need you to go, Nick,” she said, lip trembling. “I thought—”
“You thought what? A little walk down memory lane and I would forget that you won’t tell me anything. And if that wasn’t enough, Lindsey, I could never be what you need. I can’t give that to you.”
“You’re not your father,” she said in a hoarse whisper.
“You don’t know what I am, and you don’t know what I’m capable of.”
She gazed up at him. Christ, those eyes. When he looked at her, a tiny part of him wanted to believe her, wanted to believe he wasn’t like his father. He had to go. He had to get away from her. He opened the back door and stood, caught between two worlds.
“Nick, wait,” she said.
He didn’t turn around. “Lock the door behind me, Lindsey. I won’t be coming back.”
16
Lindsey crouched down, focused the lens, and framed the shot. A man in a thickly padded suit and a helmet was lying on the floor. A petite woman twisted his arm and administered a swift blow to his groin then to his knee. The studio erupted into cheers.
The self-defense instructor patted the woman on the back and rose to his feet. “Thanks for taking part in our class. Feel free to grab a flyer to share with a friend or loved one. All the self-defense workshops are being taught by retired law enforcement officers, and all of them are excellent teachers. If you want a refresher course or would like more practice working on skills, don’t hesitate to come to our next free training.”
Lindsey framed another shot. She was in her element, moving seamlessly around the yoga studio as the instructor addressed the participants. That was Photography 101: get the shot, but don’t disrupt the organic flow of the situation.
“Remember, self-defense isn’t just the physical act of punching or kicking. There’s a huge mental component, and the mantra for this mental side of surviving an attack is—”
The instructor paused, and the room erupted. “Never stop fighting.”
The instructor clapped his padded hands together. “That’s right! Never stop fighting. Today we practiced several self-defense moves and simulated possible attack scenarios. But none of that matters unless you can turn that adrenaline rush into action instead of fear. With fear, we freeze. With action—”
“We fight!” the women called out.
The instructor gave another motivational clap. “Use everything in your arsenal: Be aware of your surroundings, be assertive, carry pepper spray, even ballpoint pens and car keys can serve as a weapon. I have one more thing I’d like to show you before we bring the class to a close. I’ll need another volunteer.”
Zoe Stein raised her hand, and the instructor motioned for her to come forward. He pulled a roll of duct tape from his bag.
“Zoe and I are going to show you how to free yourself if your wrists are duct taped together.”
Zoe’s eyes went wide.
“If you don’t mind, Zoe. Please press your hands together.”
Zoe complied, and the instructor wrapped her wrists with five layers of duct tape.
“Try to pull that apart.”
Zoe’s expression grew serious as she struggled, pulling and twisting her wrists. No matter how much she tried, the tape remained intact and her wrists tightly bound.
Lindsey stood behind the instructor and continued shooting. A mother and her teenage daughter caught her attention. The daughter’s eyes were trained on the instructor as the mother gazed down at her daughter, face solemn and serious. This mother had clearly endured something—possibly an attack or an assault—and wanted her daughter to be prepared if she were trapped in a dangerous or threatening situation. It was something Lindsey sensed. This was the shot she’d been waiting for. All the participants were red-faced and sweaty from practicing the self-defense moves, but this shot of mother and daughter embodied the essence of the free self-defense trainings.
“Duct tape is extremely strong,” the instructor began. “But you can break free. Now, Zoe, I want you to hold your wrists as high above your head as you can.”
Zoe lifted her arms.
“Now bring them down against your legs with as much force as you can.”
Zoe eyed the man skeptically. “Here goes.”
She took a breath and slammed her arms against her legs in a fluid gust of force. A sound, like someone had ripped a strip of fabric into two pieces, cut through the air.
“Holy shit. It worked!” Zoe said, rubbing her wrists.
“Language, Zoe Christine Stein,” Kathy and Rosemary said in unison.
“And that’s our class,” the instructor said. “Thank you for coming out and thank you to Kathy Stein for hosting. Remember, always choose action. Always choose to fight.”
The instructor dismissed the participants, and Lindsey scrolled through the shots on her camera’s display. She looked up when Em tapped her shoulder.
Em glanced at the display. “Did you get what you needed?”
“I did. There was a great turnout,” Lindsey answered, removing the camera’s lens.
“There sure was,” Rosemary said. “And a range of ages from high schoolers to seniors from the Langley Park Senior Living Campus.”
“And I have all the consent to be photographed forms for you in the back, Lindsey,” Kathy Stein said, joining them.
Zoe bounced back and forth like a prizefighter. “Sweet baby, Jesus! I am pumped. Come at me, Jenna! All six feet of you! I’d prefer Em, she’s smaller, but you know, she’s all knocked-up. So it’s up to you, Super Barbie.”
Jenna laughed. “I’m hardly six feet tall, and I don’t think anyone in this room would bet against you in a fight.”
Zoe turned her attention to the instructor. He was still wearing the padded suit as he waved goodbye to the last of the participants.
“Mr. Self-Defense,” Zoe called out. “One more time, come at me.”
“I’m with Jenna,” the instructor answered. “I’ve seen many hardened criminals in my days on the force. I think the sight of you would terrify all of them, Zoe. But you,” he said, turning his attention to Lindsey. “You didn’t get to practice. Let’s run through a few scenarios.”
Lindsey shook her head. “Oh, no! I’m just here to take some pictures for the Kansas City Chamber of Commerce.”
“I’m well aware of that, Miss Davies. But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I wasn’t sure everyone who attended the self-defense workshop didn’t come away with some of the skills.”
Lindsey glanced around the studio. Only Kathy, Rosemary, Jenna, Zoe, and Em remained. All the other participants had left. She turned to the instructor. Her heart rate kicked up a notch. She hadn’t noticed his eyes. He had been wearing that hockey-like helmet contraption, and the bars had obscured them. But now he’d taken it off. Dark hair matted against his forehead. An errant curl brushed past his eyebrow, and below it, whiskey brown eyes.
Lindsey shifted her stan
ce. “I learned quite a bit just by watching.”
The instructor fitted the helmet back on his head. “Five minutes. It’ll give me peace of mind.”
“Wait,” Em said. “Lindsey’s—”
But Lindsey cut in before Em could finish. “Sure, let’s do it. Five minutes can’t hurt.” She met Em’s gaze. Her friend’s eyes were wide and blue and questioning. Em had taken part in a few of the self-defense role-play scenarios but mostly watched.
“Go easy,” Rosemary said. She was still her tranquil self, but she had crossed her arms.
“Okay, Miss Davies, let’s have you start with your back to the wall.”
Lindsey handed her camera to Em. “All right, whatever you say.” She was trying to keep it breezy and light, but the instructor’s eyes, so much like Brett’s, sent a jolt of panic down her spine.
She pressed her back against the wall and gazed past the instructor’s shoulder at one of the Buddhas on the floor of Kathy’s yoga studio.
“Don’t forget to shout,” he said, giving her a reassuring nod. “You have a voice. Don’t be afraid to use it.”
He leaned in and simulated grabbing her by the neck. Lindsey’s vision grew hazy, and her gaze locked on the man’s whiskey brown eyes. He had perfected the art of playing the attacker. He’d role-played different attack scenarios with all the participants. Each time, he had morphed from encouraging teacher to heartless attacker.
She knew that look.
She froze just as she had been conditioned to do under Brett’s control.
The instructor softened his expression. “Fight, Lindsey. Fight back.”
She blinked. She couldn’t fight for herself, but she could fight for the life of the child growing inside her belly. She balled up her hands into tight fists and went for his throat, his nose, his groin.
Someone was yelling. A piercing primal sound that resonated as loud as if she were standing inside a bell tower.
“You did not break me! You did not break me! You did not break me!”
“I got away! I got away! I got away!”
“Lindsey! Lindsey! It’s okay. You’re okay.”
She scratched and kicked, arms flailing. All she saw were those whiskey eyes, and something snapped. Something inside her that had been crammed down deep in her chest burst forth. That innately human drive to live exploded within her like a gladiator ready to conquer whatever atrocity was about to be unleashed into the ring.
She couldn’t stop screaming, couldn’t stop fighting. Her entire world centered on fighting off Brett, and there was nothing else. No yoga studio. No people standing by. No instructor, shielding himself from her attack.
“Lindsey Anne Hanlon,” came her godmother’s voice. “Sweetheart, you need to stop. You’re safe. You’re not in any danger.”
At the sound of her name, her real name, Lindsey took in a sharp breath and gazed around the room. She wasn’t in Houston. She wasn’t at Brett’s house. She looked down at her hands. Her fingernails were ragged as if she had clawed at the bark of a tree.
She met her godmother’s gaze. “Oh, no!” Hot tears burning with humiliation spilled down her cheeks. She ran to the back of the studio and curled into the corner.
Em got to her first and sat down next to her on the floor. Moments later, the other women surrounded her.
Her godmother took her hand. “It’s all right. You’re safe in Langley Park.”
Lindsey nodded then gazed around the circle. “The instructor?”
“He’s gone,” Kathy answered. “I thought it would be better if he left. I told him we would take care of you.”
Tears streamed down Lindsey’s cheeks. “I’m so sorry. I’m so embarrassed.”
Kathy Stein shook her head and put her hand on Lindsey’s knee. Her warm gray eyes were peaceful and open. Lindsey took her first full breath and let it out in a shaky exhale all while holding Kathy’s gaze.
“This is a safe place to talk, Lindsey,” Kathy said, sharing a look with Rosemary. “No one here would betray your trust. I love and trust these women with my life. I want you to know, you can, too.”
“I think it would help to talk about it,” Rosemary said, gently. “You’ve been holding so much inside, sweetheart. You don’t have to do this alone.”
Lindsey wiped the tears away and looked at the women. There was no judgment in their eyes, no pinched expressions. Only kindness.
Lindsey took another breath, still a bit shaky, but a fraction smoother than before. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Start where it feels comfortable. There’s no right or wrong way to begin,” Kathy replied.
Lindsey took another breath. “I met Brett about three years ago when I was hired to photograph the Houston Arboretum and Nature Center. It’s a beautiful place. My images were being used to spearhead a fundraising effort for the center, and the director had asked me to stay for the first fundraising event. Brett was there.” She shook her head. “I didn’t see it then. I didn’t see the monster. He was so charming, so chivalrous. He swept me off my feet, made me feel like the most interesting person in the room.” She buried her face in her hands.
The shame. The humiliation. It cut bone deep.
“Lindsey, I want you to listen to me when I tell you this,” Kathy said.
Lindsey dropped her hands.
Kathy’s gray eyes were still warm, but her expression was serious. “I was a social worker for many, many years. I worked directly with women and families in crisis. I can tell you from all my time in the field and from all the research I’ve read, domestic abuse happens to women of all races, all creeds, and all colors. It happens to women with Ivy League degrees and blossoming careers. Abuse knows no bounds. You do not carry any blame for what Brett did to you.”
“Kathy’s right,” Rosemary said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.
“Batterers charm you, isolate you, and after you’re alone and often dependent, that’s when the violence begins.”
Lindsey nodded. “After a month, I’d moved in with Brett. I lived out of a suitcase back then. My life was my job. But Brett enchanted me. He was a surgeon and a philanthropist. He lived in a beautiful home. He seemed like the perfect man. I was about to leave for New Zealand for a shoot, when my mother was killed in a hit and run accident.” She squeezed Rosemary’s hand. Grief and heartache flooded her chest, tight and thick, like drowning in quicksand. “After I got the call that she’d been killed, I broke down. My father walked out on us when I was sixteen. My mom was all I had. She was the one who insisted I follow my dreams and become a photographer. I could barely cope, but Brett was there. He insisted I take medication to calm down, but when I finally emerged from the fog, it had been more than a week. She’d already been laid to rest, and I wasn’t there.”
“Oh, Lindsey, that’s awful,” Em said, eyes shining with emotion.
“It spiraled down from there,” Lindsey continued. “I wouldn’t take any more medicine, but I’d fallen into depression. I canceled the remaining jobs I had booked and let Brett take care of me. At first, I couldn’t get over how kind and how patient he was. But then, I started to feel better. I wanted to get back to work. This threw him into a rage like nothing I had ever seen. He broke one of my cameras and threatened to smash all my equipment. He said he’d taken care of me, and I was a thankless, heartless bitch who wanted to leave him. That was the first night he hit me. He threw me up against the wall and slapped me so hard the blood vessels in my eye ruptured. After that, he held a loaded gun to my head and told me if I ever tried to leave him, he’d hunt me down and he’d kill anyone who tried to stop him.”
Lindsey paused. For a moment, the scent of rosewater, her mother’s scent, hung sweet and fragrant in the air as if her spirit was there, offering strength. Lindsey closed her eyes and focused on her mother’s face.
“I’m not sure how I allowed myself to settle into a life with him. It just happened. I hadn’t worked in over a year and a half. Brett had damaged most of my equipm
ent. But he didn’t break my old Nikon. I couldn’t use it for work. Maybe he had just assumed it was worthless. It didn’t have any of the bells and whistles of today’s cameras. I started using it to document the abuse. When he was at work, I would photograph my black eyes, my bruised ribs, the gashes, the scrapes. Somehow, that became my normal.”
Zoe wiped a tear from her cheek. “You didn’t think the police could help?”
“I was worried that if I called them, Brett would hurt them, shoot them just like he’d threatened. I just figured, if I could contain his rage and limit it to me, I’d be protecting other people. I know it makes no sense…”
“Many women have felt the way you did, Lindsey,” Kathy said with a solemn expression. “It’s a common response not to want others to have to endure abuse.”
“But that all changed when I found out I was pregnant,” Lindsey continued. “I’d had a gash on my scalp that wasn’t healing. I had started taking antibiotics without telling Brett. The last few months we were together, he’d mostly left me alone in the bedroom. He was preoccupied with some issue regarding his brother. They’re both surgeons. I’m not sure if it had to do with their practice. He didn’t share that kind of information with me. But one night, he came home late. He was terribly angry and agitated—more than usual. I was already in bed. I tried to pretend to be asleep, but he woke me, and he…”
“He forced himself on you,” Rosemary said, giving her the words.
Lindsey nodded. “I knew I was in danger of becoming pregnant. I prayed I wouldn’t. But…” She pressed her hand to her belly and met each woman’s gaze. “I’m eighteen weeks pregnant. I left Brett the moment I found out. I was able to pawn some of the jewelry he’d given me to get by. I also stayed at women’s shelters. They helped me change my last name. And then there’s Rosemary.” She met her godmother’s gaze. “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have a home or a job or…” Lindsey looked around the circle.
“Friends,” Em said, placing her hand on Lindsey’s leg next to where Kathy’s hand rested.
Lindsey nodded, blinking back the tears.
The Complete Langley Park Series (Books 1-5) Page 67