Page 4 of Fool Me Once

Smith Sawyer might have fooled me once, but I’ll never be stupid enough to let him do it again.

Six Years Later

My heart feels like it’s inside my throat, and my rib cage aches angrily as I run down the sidewalk toward my neighbor’s house, passing a few others along the way. Choosing the house at the end of the block as my savior is risky, but I don’t trust anyone else. They are all too close to Richie.

Including his parents, who live across the road from us.

The only neighbors I trust right now are Mr. and Mrs. Denison. The older couple, I could tell, knew things weren’t right inside my home.

I feel the blood dripping from my lip, and as the night air rushes against my face, the cut on my cheek stings.

I’ve been pushed against a wall, choked to the point of almost dying, and thrown onto the floor—along with a lot of other awful shit—at the hands of the man I’m supposed to marry in a few weeks.

But tonight? This is the worst things have ever been.

When I knew he was close to killing me, I mustered up every ounce of strength inside of me from a place I hadn’t even known I had, grabbed a frying pan, and smashed him on the back of the head as he turned away from me. I didn’t wait around to see if he gained consciousness; I prayed he didn’t. I hoped I’d get lucky and he’d stop breathing.

And, yeah, I’m aware I’m going to hell for that. That’s okay because no hell could ever be as bad as the one I’ve been living in.

Once his body went down, I ran. Although I did stop long enough to grab the phone that had fallen out of his pocket when he fell onto the floor.

Continuing to run, I hastily push a few buttons that I’ve always been too scared to push and bring the phone to my ear.

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” a female voice says.

Suddenly,talking becomes impossible as I open my mouth, and my throat feels hot and swollen.

Fear.That’s what this is.

“I …” I choke out pathetically as I reach their lawn, rush toward the house, and look behind me.

As pathetic as it is, I debate on hanging up. A sense of guilt washes over me because I know I made him mad tonight. This was my fault because I’d triggered him when I talked about wanting to go visit my parents alone.

And then I remind myself that I hadn’t asked for this. I haven’t done anything wrong, but in my soul, I feel like I have because that’s what Richie has instilled deep, deep within my being.

“My name is Gemma Jones. I am located at 57 Monarch Street in Ellington. I need help. My fiancé”—tears spring to my eyes—“he’s going to come after me.”

“Ma’am, calm down, okay? I’m sending someone out to you now.” She speaks calmly, and I wish she wouldn’t.

Doesn’t she understand I’m in trouble? Richie will come to the Denisons’, and given that they are both in their sixties, I don’t know how well they could protect me—or themselves—against him. The last thing I’d ever want to do is put them in harm’s way, but they are the only people on this street who know what kind of guy my fiancé is. And the craziest part is, I didn’t even have to tell them. They just knew. The first time they saw me with a black eye, they didn’t ask, though they were extra kind that day. The second and third? They voiced their concerns.

I started spending a lot more time with them. I’d tell Richie I was helping them around their home, but really … I just liked feeling semi-safe. A few months ago, he got paranoid that they were trying to take me from him, and he forbade me from going to their house.

“I need you to provide me with some information, okay? Can you do that?”

As I leap up their front steps, that’s when I hear his truck roar to life. When I reach for their doorknob, I scream when it’s locked, and then I begin pounding.

“You don’t understand!” I’m screaming into the phone now, thrashing my fist on the door. “He’s coming! You need to send someone.” My bodyfreezes in fear as I turn my head and see the truck backing quickly out of our driveway. “Help me!”

Kneeling down, I keep low and continue pounding on their door. Every part of my body threatens to freeze up in fear as the truck gets closer. If he finds me, he’s going to kill me. At least, that’s what he told me would happen if I ever tried to run away. And somehow, even though I don’t believe him when it comes to much anymore, I believe him when it comes to this.

The truck slows in front of the house before this one, just as Mr. Denison opens the door and looks down at me. His eyes instantly fly toward the headlights, and he grabs me by the elbow and pulls me inside, locking the door behind him.

“Ma’am, are you still with me?” the operator says.

I nod weakly. “Yes,” I croak, and I see the truck stop in front of the house through the curtains. “Help me,” I cry. “Help me.Please.”

Fear has a way of paralyzing you. It pins you down and keeps you there. It tells you that you’ll never make it out. It reminds you that you’re too weak. Too scared. Too pathetic to ever get free.

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