Page 48 of I'm Watching You

Malcolm shook his head. ‘Will she have you back?’

‘I don’t know.’

The Guardian clicked off the television, irritated by the evening news reports. Harold’s name had been released to the press, but the stations had given the murder little airtime. All three stations had screwed up the story, but that dumb bitch reporter from Channel 10, Kendall Shaw, had missed the point completely. She’d prattled on about the county’s low murder rate and domestic violence statistics. She seemed more worried about her own image than reporting the story.

That was the problem with people. They were selfish and far too wrapped up in their individual lives to notice what didn’t directly concern them.

The only one who could trulyseewas Lindsay.

She reached out to others in need. She put the lives of others in front of her own.

Her warrior spirit should have appreciated Harold’s hand nestled in a bed of irises. Like the flowers, which telegraphed Friendship, Hope, Wisdom, and Valor, the hand was rich with symbolism. It not only bore Harold’s platinum wedding band, but it was the left hand and it was well known that the attorney was a lefty. It was his dominant hand. His power center. He’d always struck his wife with his left fist.

One click of another remote and a very different image snapped on theTV. This in full color as well, but it was an image of Lindsay’s living room.

The cameras had been placed in her apartment thirty days ago. It had been appallingly easy to gain entrance. A work order and a report of fuzzy cable was all it had taken. The cameras had been easy to install. Several weren’t bigger than the size of a dime, and the transmitter, which boosted the signal up to seven miles, was easily wired into an outlet behind theACunit.

The Guardian settled back in a chair and studied the television screen. In the background, Lindsay’s favorite SugarlandCDcrooned. The country and western song was upbeat, fast paced. In the background he heard Lindsay singing.

Seconds later Lindsay emerged from the kitchen. Her hair was damp from a shower and she wore an oversized, well-worn T-shirt that said ‘USC.’ She had a large bowl of popcorn and a diet soda. Her favorite evening ritual before bed.

Lindsay’s habits were so predictable. Two cups of coffee before work. An hour of yoga in the morning. Glasses only when she read. Weekends when she wasn’t on call meant refinishing the chest of drawers that would be a showpiece. Insomnia when she was troubled.

Lindsay sat on her carpeted floor and switched on a cable news station. Silently she watched and ate her popcorn.

Her phone rang and she leaned over and grabbed the receiver off the cradle. ‘Hello.’

Late calls never boded well. They always meant a crisis that pulled her away, and she’d already had a long enough day. She shouldn’t have gone to the church. But then she wasn’t one to quit on a promise.

A flipped switch and the call broadcasted over the speakers.

‘Hey, Aisha,’ Lindsay said. ‘Is everything all right?’

Aisha sighed. ‘The shelter is fine. Everyone is real nice.’

‘And the boys are settled in?’

‘Yes. We’re all in the same room. They like that.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Marcus called me again this evening on my cell phone. He keeps telling me how much he loves me.’

Lindsay’s expression tightened. ‘We’ve been through this before, Aisha. He wants to control you. What he feels for you isn’t healthy.’

‘I know, I know. And I told him I wouldn’t be coming back to him no matter what. And I meant that. I really did.’

‘Good girl.’

Lindsay and the Guardian spoke the two words in unison.

‘But he wants to see the boys. He says they’re his sons and he has a right to them. I don’t want to keep Damien and Jamal from their dad.’

‘The boys are afraid of him.’

‘He hasn’t hit them in a while.’

Lindsay gripped the telephone, struggling with her temper. The children always got to her. ‘He is talking about his rights as a father but you have rights, too, Aisha. You and the boys have the right to a safe home.’

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