Page 61 of Punishing Penelope

“It’s Peter. Cop, admittedly, but he’s off duty. It’ll be all right. Is Cole still out there?”

“I don’t know. It’s quiet now.”

A chill runs through my chest. What if he’s hurt himself? If that’s why it’s quiet?

“Don’t go out. Did you call his parents?”

“No! They can’t know. God. I don’t want them to see him like this.”

I’ve felt conflicted by Sandra’s choices from time to time—clawing her way up in Hollywood, her fixation on fame and riches, staying with Cole, even though they’ve been awful to each other since long before they had kids—but those last words endear her endlessly to me. Even afraid, even though she’s finally decided to leave him, she still doesn't want to hurt him. I hope he sees that when he’s cooled down his hot head.

“I’m coming up your street. I’ll be with you in no time. I’m hanging up.”

Car parked outside their driveway, I find Cole pacing outside the house. His hands are bloody, his eyes unfocused, he has a thick, wild beard, his hair is a mess, and his red-checkered flannel shirt hangs askew.

“Cole, my man. What’s happening?”

He looks so lost and confused, I ache just seeing him.

“Pen? Pen Wilder?”

I step a little closer. “Long time no see. What happened to your hands?”

He looks down, clenches and unclenches his fists, then sinks into a crouch and wraps his arms around his head.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!”

Crouching next to him, I put an arm around his shoulders.

“It’ll be all right, big boy.”

“It’ll never be all right, Pen. Never. I… Oh God!”

A car approaches then stops behind mine, and Peter hops out. Cole flinches and darts up. Peter holds out his hands in a gesture of peace.

“I’m not on duty, Cole. Pen called me.”

Cole looks between us. I’m still holding a hand on his arm. He reeks of alcohol, both the sharp scent of newly consumed beer and booze and that dank, dirty smell of days of drinking.

“Why are you guys here?”

“Sandra called.”

A slew of emotions crosses his face—despair, relief, rage.

“She called me, Cole. Not the cops, not your family.” I glance at Peter, once again marveling he’s with me, and I’m with him. “I’m going in.”

Peter nods and stays with Cole, taking my spot by his side.

Their house is trashed—furniture in pieces, plates and glasses strewn over the floor. I find a weeping Sandra and two trembling, violently crying kids in the main bedroom. Her face is puffy and streaked with tears, and her platinum blonde hair is in disarray, but she doesn’t seem to be injured. I’d have called on-duty cops in a heartbeat if he had laid a hand on them.

That isn’t Cole, though. He never was that man, and it’s not what he has become either. What he is, is a deeply hurt human being, and I know he’s in the best of hands out there with Peter.

I sit with Sandra in their little home, which looks to have been quite cozy before today’s disaster. They’ve come a long way since their trailer days. She distracted their children with TV—thankfully still functioning, even though it has a dent—and snacks while I made tea and sandwiches. We turn over the dining table and two chairs that are still intact, then we talk.

“I did a shitty thing,” she says. “We’re over. For real this time.”

That’s all I get out of her. It’s clear she doesn't want to go into detail about what happened today. The nosy reporter in me wants to dig, but this isn’t the time or place, so I leave it be.

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