Live to Tell Read Free

cheerful pots of red geraniums, half a dozen blue folding chairs, and a hanging piece of slate that had been painted with more red geraniums and the bright yellow declaration: Welcome .
    Yep, definitely something worse than gun-toting, tennis-shoe-tossing drug dealers.
    D.D. sighed, put on her game face, and approached the uniformed officer stationed at the base of the front steps. She rattled off her name and badge number. In turn, the officer dutifully recorded the info in the murder book, then jerked his head down to the bin at his feet.
    D.D. obediently fished out booties and a hair covering. So it was that kind of crime scene.
    She climbed the steps slowly, keeping to one side. They appeared recently stained, a light Cape Cod gray that suited the rest of the house. The porch was homey, well kept. Clean enough that she suspected it had been recently broom swept. Perhaps after unloading groceries, a household member had tidied up?
    It would’ve been better if the porch had been dirty, covered in dust. That might have yielded shoe treads. That might have helped catch whoever did the bad thing D.D. was about to find inside.
    She took another breath right outside the door, inhaled the scent of sawdust and drying blood. She heard a reporter calling for a statement. She heard the snap of a camera, the roar of a media chopper, and white noise all around. Gawkers behind, detectives ahead, reporters above.
    Chaos: loud, smelly, overwhelming.
    Her job now was to make it right.
    She got to it.

CHAPTER
TWO
    VICTORIA
    “I’m thirsty,” he says.
    “What would you like?” I offer.
    “Woman, bring me a drink, or I’ll break your fucking face.”
    He doesn’t sound angry. That’s how these things often go. Sometimes, the storm arrives quickly. One moment he’s watching TV, the next he’s tearing apart the living room. Other times, he lingers on the precipice. Say or do the right thing, and calm will be restored. Say or do the wrong thing, on the other hand …
    I get off the couch. It’s Thursday evening, an ungodly hot and humid August night in Boston. The kind of night best spent at a beach or at a giant swimming pool. Of course, neither one is an option for us. We’ve spent the afternoon inside, watching the History Channel while basking in air-conditioning. I’d hoped a quiet evening might be soothing for him. Now I don’t know.
    Inside the kitchen, I debate my options. A drink order involves a vast array of land mines: First, guess the proper beverage. Then selectthe right glass/mug/cup. Not to mention ice or no ice, straw or no straw, cocktail napkin or coaster.
    Once, I wouldn’t’ve refused such a belligerent demand. I would’ve demanded nice words, nice voice. I’m not your servant , I would’ve reminded him. You will treat me with respect .
    These things happen, though. Not all at once. But bit by bit, moment by moment, choice by choice. There are pieces of yourself that, once you give away, you can never get back again.
    I go with the blue mug, a recent favorite, and tap water—less mess when he inevitably tosses the contents into my face. My hands are already shaking. I take several calming breaths. He hasn’t gone over the edge yet. Remember, he hasn’t gone over the edge. Not yet .
    I carry the mug into the living room, where I set it on the glass coffee table while watching him beneath my lowered eyelids. If his feet remain flat on the floor, I will continue with appeasement. If he’s already twitching, perhaps tapping a foot, or rolling his shoulder in the way that often precedes a sudden, hard-thrown punch, then I will bolt. Get down the hall, grab the Ativan, and dope him up.
    I’m telling you, there are pieces of yourself that, once you give away, you can never get back again.
    He picks up the mug, feet stable, shoulders loose. He takes an experimental sip, pauses….
    Sets it down again.
    I have just resumed breathing, when he grabs the plastic mug and slams it against the side of my head.
    I