Page 18 of Ghost's Revenge
All of it crystallized into one simple fact: no one hurts her on my watch.
"Thank you," she says, her voice soft but steady. Like she's not horrified by what she just witnessed. Like she's not calculating the fastest way to get herself and Tyler away from the dangerous man who just proved exactly how dangerous he can be.
"You don't need to thank me."
"Yes, I do. If you hadn't been here..."
"But I was here. That's what matters."
The truth is, I almost wasn't. Five more minutes and I would have been back at my apartment, drinking coffee and trying not to think about the way she smiled when Tyler caught that ball. Five more minutes and she would have faced David alone, a man who has already proven he’s willing to use violence to get what he wants.
The thought makes my hands shake, makes the red haze threaten to creep back in around the edges of my vision. I clenchmy fists and force myself to breathe, to focus on the fact that she's standing here whole and unharmed, that Tyler never had to see his father's blood on the porch.
Thank God for that, at least. Thank God the kid was asleep upstairs instead of witnessing what his old man was capable of. What I'm capable of.
Debbie is looking at me with something I can't quite put my finger on. Not fear, which is what I expected. Not disgust, which is what I deserve. Something else. Something that makes my heart pound faster.
"Are you okay?" she asks, and the question catches me completely off guard.
"Am I okay?"
"You just... that was intense. And you look like you're about to fall over."
She's right. The adrenaline is starting to fade, leaving behind the crash that comes after violence. My hands are steadier now, but there's a tremor in my legs that I'm hoping she can't see. Combat fatigue, the docs at the VA call it. The body's natural response to extreme stress.
"I'm fine," I lie, because that's what you say. Because admitting weakness isn't something I know how to do, especially not in front of the woman I just fought to protect.
She looks at my face with those brown eyes that see too much, and I have the uncomfortable feeling that she doesn't believe me. "When's the last time you ate something?"
The question is so unexpected, so standard after everything that just happened, that I actually laugh. "What?"
"Food. When did you last eat actual food?" She crosses her arms, and suddenly I'm being interrogated by someone who barelycomes up to my shoulder. "Because you look like you're running on fumes and adrenaline, and that's not sustainable."
"Debbie—"
"Don't 'Debbie' me. You just saved my life and probably Tyler's, too. The least I can do is make sure you don't collapse on my front porch."
Before I can argue, she's opening the screen door and gesturing for me to follow her inside. The shelter is quiet now, most of the other women having retreated to give us privacy, but I can smell coffee brewing and something that might be pancakes.
"I should go," I say, even as my feet carry me toward the door. "Let you get back to your normal routine."
"Normal?" She almost laughs. "My ex-husband just showed up with a knife, and you beat him unconscious on the porch. I don't think we're dealing with normal anymore."
She has a point.
"Sit," Debbie says, pointing to a chair at the kitchen table. "Coffee?"
"I really should—"
"Sit. Coffee. Now."
There's steel in her voice, the same tone I heard when she told David she wasn't going anywhere with him. It occurs to me that Debbie Wilson might look soft and gentle, but there's a core of strength there that explains how she survived the abuse and still had the courage to leave.
I sit.
The coffee is strong and hot, exactly what I need to chase away the last of the adrenaline shakes. Debbie moves around thekitchen, pulling ingredients out of cabinets and starting what looks like scrambled eggs.
"You don't have to cook for me," I say.
