Nothing Feels Better (Better Love 3)

Three nightsafter my first meeting with Christina Pierce, my phone rings. It’s almost midnight on a Thursday. I don’t have to guess who it is.

I let it go to voicemail.

It rings again immediately.

I texted Patrick yesterday and informed him that, once again, he can’t have the kids this weekend. He didn’t care, which is no surprise. But judging by the constant calling, I’m guessing it, somehow, made it back to him that I’ve been to PP&A. I don’t know how he finds this stuff out, but he does.

I let the phone ring out again, then stare at it in silence for a full minute. Then two.

Maybe he’s given up. Passed out drunk at his house and won’t bother me again tonight.

My relief is short-lived when I hear the familiar rumble of his truck pull into the driveway. Quickly, I glance at the patio doors to make sure the blinds are drawn. I know it’s locked because I haven’t unlocked it since I saw those pictures that had been taken of me and Jesse through the glass. Then I rush to the front door and click the deadbolt just before the handle jiggles.

The knocks start once he realizes the door is locked.

One set of three calm, normal raps. Followed by louder, quicker pounds.

“Let me in, Lyn,” he slurs on the other side of the door.

I don’t answer, and he bangs on the door again.

“Open the door, Lyn!” he shouts. The door starts to vibrate and shake, as if he’s kicking it. “Let me the fuck in, Lyn,” he repeats, his words louder, muffled only by the assault he’s leading against the door. “Open the fucking door!”

I hear a crack and frantically scan my eyes over the frame. Then I hear another. He’s going to break it down.

“Patrick,” I yell through the door, “go home. You’re drunk.”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” he shouts. His kicks and pounds haven’t stopped. Jesus Christ, he’s actually trying to break the door down.

“I’ll call the cops,” I threaten, holding my phone tightly in my hand. My arm is shaking rapidly. So much so that I worry I’ll lose my grip. He laughs, and it’s manic and careless.

“Fucking call ‘em.” The doorframe makes another cracking sound. “Don’t make me shoot this fucking door down, Lyn.”

He’s not kidding. He doesn’t make empty threats. My heart is in my throat as I unlock my phone. I can’t let him in this house.

“I will fucking kill you,” he screams, each word punctuated with a loud, cracking kick at the door. “I will fucking kill you, Lyn!”

“Mom,” a voice cries, and I look up the stairs and find June and Jude’s terrified faces peering down at me. The threats and kicking haven’t stopped. Patrick is still hurling threats at the door as I peer up at our children. Their skin is stark white, their eyes round with fear.

“It’s going to be okay,” I tell them in my most reassuring voice as I dial 911. “Go in my room and lock the door, then hide in the closet.” I put the phone to my ear. “Go.”

I watch as June grabs Jude’s hand and tugs him away.

“I’m calling 911,” I yell through the door. One last effort to get him to stop, and he goes quiet. The operator answers on the other end of the phone, asking me about my emergency, and as I open my mouth to speak, three gunshots sound, one right after another.

Glass shatters, a framed picture falls off the wall and crashes to the floor, and I run halfway up the stairs, watching in horror as Patrick starts kicking the door again. There are chunks of wood littering the hall, but I can’t tell where they came from.

The operator asks if she heard gunshots, and I tell her yes. She asks if I’ve been hit, and I run my trembling hands over my body. I don’t feel pain, but I don’t feel much of anything outside of fear, and I can barely get enough air in my lungs to answer her.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly, trying to focus on the phone call and not on the abuse being shouted at me from the other side of the door. “Please hurry.”

Outside the door, I hear more voices. Another shot. A crashing sound and grunts. There’s no way the cops could be here already. I stand and creep down a few steps, just as another knock sounds—it’s softer, but no less urgent.

“Jocelyn?” the voice calls, and I recognize it. “Jocelyn, are you okay? Can you open up?”

I rush down the stairs and unlock the door. When I crack it open, I see Riggs’s roommate Xavier standing on the porch, shirtless and in sweats. For some reason, his bare feet catch my attention. There is glass covering my front porch and he’s standing here in bare feet. I scan for blood and find some. Smeared on the ground. On the sides of his feet.

Xavier’s voice is calm as it floats into my consciousness over the sounds of my own rapid breathing and heartbeats. He’s asking me if I’m okay. If the kids are okay. He says he’s called the police.

“I’ve called them too,” I mumble, then glance at my hand.

I don’t know where my phone is. I don’t think I hung up with the operator. Where is my phone? I move my eyes from my hand back to Xavier’s feet, but my attention snags on the yard beyond.

There’s a heap there.

A body.

Two bodies.

I gasp and move to step forward, but Xavier puts his hands on my shoulders, stopping me.

“Don’t come out here yet,” he says. “Riggs is fine. Your ex-husband is knocked out, but we’re not taking chances.”

I look back to the yard and let my eyes adjust. Riggs is looking at me, and his body and hands are restraining Patrick. Patrick, whose eyes are closed and head is lulled to the side.

He looks dead. I couldn’t be so lucky.

Two cop cars and an ambulance arrive. Patrick is arrested. I’m checked for injuries. I’m questioned. Riggs and Xavier are questioned.

“I’m pressing charges,” I tell Travis. “He needs to be punished for this.”

To my surprise, Travis nods. I thought for sure he would take Patrick’s side and try to talk me out of it. Just like he did with June’s accident. When Travis was one of the officers to answer my 911 call, I was prepared to have to fight tooth and nail to keep this from being swept under the rug. Instead, Travis agrees with me.

“I know, Lyn,” he says solemnly, and I can hear the guilt in his words. “It should have been handled a long time ago.”

I don’t point out that he’s one of the reasons it wasn’t handled a long time ago.

“Jocelyn,” I correct him. “My name is Jocelyn.”