Chapter 67
Colby
I pull up to Caleb’s house to find him sitting on the curb, looking a whole lot smaller to me than he did at Theo’s school three months ago.
As I get out of my truck and run to him, he stands, and it’s clear to me he’s got a whopper of a welt on his left cheekbone.
“Jesus,” I say, appraising the angry contusion rising up on his face. “Your father did that?”
“He was screaming at my mom. I told him to leave.”
I look toward the house. “He’s still in there?”
Caleb nods.
“Have you called the police?”
Caleb shakes his head. “I don’t want him to get into trouble. I just want him to leave. That’s why I called you. He’s not supposed to be here. There’s a court order.”
I open my mouth to tell him we need to call the cops, whether he likes it or not, because a father can’t haul off and punch a kid, but before I get the words out, a loud female scream erupts inside the house.
“Shit,” I mutter. “Stay here, Caleb. And call 9-1-1 right now. I know you don’t want to do it, but you have no choice. Do it for your mom now, Caleb.”
With that, I sprint at full speed toward the house, my heart racing. What am I going to find when I get in there? If this bastard is willing to punch his kid, God only knows what he’s prepared to do to Caleb’s mom.
I burst through the front door of the house to find a large man built like a linebacker pinning a small woman to a wall by her neck. She’s got her hands over his. Her face is red and her eyes wide and bulging. Clearly, she can’t breathe.
“Who is he?” the man bellows as he chokes the woman, and she scratches and claws at his hands, trying to free herself.
I’m not a small man. I’m six-three and ripped. Around most men, I feel like a stud. But not in comparison to this guy. He looks like a fucking brick wall. But our relative sizes don’t matter in this moment. He’s literally killing her. Without a thought in my head, I lunge at the guy, put him in a headlock from behind, and pull him backward with all my might.
As we both stumble backward, I see the woman crumple to the ground, holding her neck.
I try to steady my footing, instinctively preparing myself for whatever battle lies ahead with this behemoth, but he swings his elbow back and lands a direct hit on my temple. I fall like a ton of bricks, cracking my head onto the edge of a side table as I go.
“Did you enjoy fucking my wife?” he booms.
And, just like that, I realize I’m in some deep shit here.
My head is throbbing. Blood is gushing into my left eye. “Wasn’t me, man,” I say. “I’m just here because you’re a cocksucker who hits women and children.” I leap up and lunge at him and land a solid punch to his jaw that makes my hand sting.
He stumbles back but doesn’t fall, so I punch him again, dropping him to the floor like a sack of potatoes. With a primal scream, he pulls at my leg and drops me, and suddenly we’re both on the ground wailing on each other. Somehow, I get myself situated on top of his chest and begin pummeling him like a madman from there while the woman screams her head off behind me.
I’m vaguely aware sirens are blaring faintly in the distance. Is that the police coming here? Or a faraway fire truck or ambulance, heading off to some car accident?
Without warning, he kicks me in the balls and throws me off him.
As I writhe on the ground, momentarily dazed and gripping my nuts... he shuffles to a nearby desk, opens a drawer... and... in slow motion... pulls out a gleaming handgun.
Lydia.
The life I was so excited to have with Lydia flashes before my eyes.
As he raises the gun, my body jerks and twitches, too shocked to move.
Lydia.
“Alexander, no!” the woman shrieks, charging at her husband and waving her arms frantically. “It wasn’t him! I don’t know him!”
The bastard glances at his charging wife, momentarily distracted, and I instinctively spring up and lunge at him, intending to knock the gun out of his hand. But the fucker turns my way again, just before I’ve made contact. As I crash into him, the gun goes off with a loud pop, shocking the living fuck out of me.
Lydia.
I go down, taking the fucker with me, every cell in my body lurching and bucking and spasming in sheer terror.
Lydia.
When I hit the ground, I don’t feel it. In fact, in this moment, I can’t feel my body at all. Have I been shot? Am I in shock? Am I dead?
Lydia.
None of my senses are working, other than my sense of taste. Blood. That’s the only thing my body can process in this moment. The metallic taste of blood pouring into my mouth by the gallon.
Lydia.
I look down at the motherfucker underneath me and blood from my head gushes onto his face like I’ve turned on a bloody faucet. Is that my gray matter poetically dousing my killer as I inhale my last breath? Or am I simply bleeding from when I cracked my scalp wide open on the ledge of that table? As a paramedic, I know all too well how profusely head wounds bleed... But could it be my head is blown half off and I don’t realize it?
The man who wants me dead reaches for his gun on the ground a few inches away from his outstretched hand and I scramble frantically to get there first.
“You fucked my wife!” he shouts, elbowing me in the ribs.
“No!” I scream, kneeing him in the head with all my might. “It wasn’t me, motherfucker!”
There’s a sound behind me. A scuffling sound. And then a male voice says, “Police! Put your hands up where we can see them!”
I leap off the fucker with my hands up and kick maniacally at the floor with my heels, frantically scooting away on my ass, skittering away from my murderer like some kind of frenzied, bloodied, hysterical crab.
“Hands up!” the cop shouts again. I glance over to the door. I see a badge. A gun. Blazing eyes.
I return my gaze to the asshole on the floor and watch, in slow motion, as he moves ever so slightly toward the gun... and then gets his head blown to motherfucking bits.