English quickly turned away and placed the lighter and card on the counter by the cake and pulled herself together. She put on as convincing a smile as she could, and to seal the deal, she wrapped her arm around her mother’s waist and kissed the top of her head, squeezing her tight. It wasn’t long before they were all singing happy birthday to the woman of honor.
Mama’s eyes lit up, reflecting the small flames all aglow on the cake. She cracked a joke that English barely heard, and thanked God for another year on planet Earth. When she finished blowing out the candles, the place boomed with applause and whistles. While everyone was busy eating and celebrating, English stared at the envelope, now smeared with white icing. She looked around, ensuring the coast was clear, then slipped it into her purse.
I feel sick having anything he touched near me, but I am taking this shit out of this house. Tonight.
…One day later
I could never be inducted into a cult…
She just was with a crazy guy. I woulda been done left…
Couldm’t have been me.
Why would she stay so long?
She’s gullible as hell.
She’s too pretty to have gotten wrapped up in a cult.
How could she let him do those things to her?
He wouldn’t have been able to fool me like that.
People who get into cults are followers, instead of leaders.
She must’ve had a messed-up childhood she was trying to escape…
She didn’t pray for discernment.
His teachings were right, but he was the wrong messenger.
How can she be so smart, yet…
…SO DUMB?
English had heard all of these things during the worst time of her life, and following her escape from a mental Alcatraz. Still, now, she kept hearing them. When the crap had first hit the fan, some people believed she’d simply escaped a horrible ex-boyfriend, when in fact, she’d been stripped of her identity and dignity. Everything she loved and treasured, including her core values, had been snatched away, ripped to shreds, and tossed into a big bonfire. She was no longer a person. She was a thing.
English sat in the police department lobby, waiting. The strong scent of Folger’s coffee and that odd odor old printers made, mingled and created a familiar, yet cold, feeling in the air. The heat of machines, ink, and paper climbed over the scent of ground beans turned into liquid. People chatted. Officers came and went. Phones rang.
English glanced down at her cellphone, where she was researching various addresses Master had resided at. Using a fake online profile, she browsed his social media. Not that she found much, but enough to see he was still up to his delusional ranting and raving. Nothing short of the calling card of a madman.
“Would you like some coffee while you wait?” A pair of blue eyes hooked on hers from behind gold-rimmed glasses.
“That’s nice of you, but I’m fine. No, thank you.”
The front desk receptionist had already offered her water before, and if she were to wait much longer, she might even propose lunch or dinner. The woman seemed nice enough, sitting behind a glass partition with her shoulder-length reddish brown hair and black cat eyeglasses. A light blue and white sleeveless polka dot dress complimented her 1950s look, made edgier by the tattoo of a mostly bald, wrinkled cat with a pink mohawk on her shoulder.
“English Price?” An officer approached her from the Louisville police department.
“Yes.”
“Come with me, honey.” The middle-aged police officer motioned to her.
Grabbing her purse from the empty seat next to her, she got to her feet and followed him into a small, sterile office. He left the door slightly ajar, then pointed at a chair for her to have a seat. The man grunted and cleared his throat as he sat down on an old chair across from her, with the sun, trees, and highway behind him. She looked out of his window as he shuffled some folders about, then typed on his computer.
“How are you doing today, Ms. Price?” he questioned. It sounded more like an afterthought, something to say to fill in the gaps.
“I’m okay.”
“I reckon you could be better, based on what I see here.”
She nodded. Outside, cars were whizzing by. Looking at the flying reds, whites, grays and blues kept her nerves a bit steadier.
“I see a PO here, for—”
“PO is a protection order, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. I see the PO here issued for a Mr. Master Whitefield, dated over nine years back.”
“Yes, and when I tried to have the restraining order reinstated when it expired a year after issue, I was denied.”
“What was that denial based on? Do you recall?” He folded his hands and leaned slightly forward.
“I was told by the magistrate that Mr. Whitefield was no longer a threat to me, based on the lack of contact and other particulars that were completely irrelevant.”