Page 60 of Power
Scarlett was outside.
My gut dropped when I registered that something was wrong. Her stance was rigid, protective, as she positioned herself in front of another woman who was older and trembling. They were both facing someone. A man.
My body tensed, my instincts screaming that she was in danger, even if I didn’t know why. There was something in the way he moved, the shift of his weight, the darkness in his posture that set off every alarm.
I cocked my head, watching the interaction, and as I did, I realized something in horror:
This guy was a predator.
And he was advancing toward Scarlett.
31
SCARLETT
Dad looked just like I remembered him. Brown hair in need of a trim, a beard peppering with gray, a soft body that hadn’t seen the inside of a gym in years, and broad shoulders that seemed to block out all the light. Just like his presence had stolen the light from our lives for years. His eyes seemed thinner, darker, if that was even possible, like the brown had melted into ebony, surrendering to the shadow that had claimed his soul long ago.
“Get in the car, Nancy.” Dad produced a small knife, holding it at his side so no one else could see it as he motioned with his chin to Mom’s vehicle. Casual. Like he was offering her a ride home from the grocery store instead of threatening her life on a public sidewalk.
Flashes of my childhood invaded my thoughts. The times I’d been a little girl, hiding under my bed, covering my ears and crying at the sounds of pain and screaming, tears and terror. How I’d eventually crawl out to find my mother bloody and battered, and I’d say, “I’m so sorry, Mommy.” Because I’d let him do that to her. I’d left her. Hiding, to protect myself.
It had taken years to find my inner strength, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t sometimes feel like that scared little girl again. But I’d never again hide under my bed from this monster. I’d neveragain abandon her either. The guilt of all those blood-soaked memories had almost done me in.
When Dad angled the knife, I took another protective step, planting myself firmly between them, shielding my mom with my body. My heart hammered against my ribs, but my voice came out steady.
“Don’t,” I said to her, not taking my eyes off him. “If you do, you won’t survive the night.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” he sneered.
“Leave. Or I’ll call the police.” My hand inched toward my pocket where my phone sat. Truth be told, I’d be calling the police no matter what, but I didn’t need to tell him that.
He smirked, the expression so familiar, it made my intestines knot. “It’ll take them time to get here.”
“Spoken like a domestic violence expert.”
“Last warning. Get in the car.”
“Scarlett,” Mom whispered, trying to emerge from behind me. “I’ll go with him.” Her voice trembled.
“You won’t,” I said, pushing her gently back.
“Listen to your mother, Scarlett. Move aside.”
“You don’t want her,” I accused, chin up despite the fear slamming around my rib cage. “You don’t want a woman that rejected you.”
His eyes narrowed. “You don’t know what I want.”
“You just want to control her. And now you want to punish her for leaving you.”
“You’ve made it quite difficult to find you.” He took a half step closer, trying to intimidate us.
“That was the intention.” I straightened my shoulders. “Now leave before I call the police.”
I tried not to tremble when he took another step, but the scent of his aftershave—the same cheap brand he’d always used—brought back a tidal wave of memories I’d spent years trying to drown. That smell. It had often mixed with the blood of my mother.
“Don’t make a scene, Scarlett.” His voice was low, menacing.
I let out a bitter laugh. “That was your favorite line to use in public. ‘Don’t make a scene, Scarlett.’ ‘Don’t embarrass me, Nancy.’ Doesn’t work anymore. Leave. Now. And never come back.”
