When the full meaning of what I’ve just said sinks in, he chews on his bottom lip with a small nod. I can see the frustration in the veins that rise in his neck. He pulls his keys out of his pocket and removes my apartment key. He tosses it on the counter and walks away.
When he grabs his jacket and disappears out the front door, I feel that familiar twinge of guilt creeping into my chest. The guilt is always followed by doubts like,Am I being too hard on him?andWhat if he really has changed?
I know the answers to these questions, but sometimes it feels good to read the reminders. I go to my room and pull the list out of my jewelry box.
1) He slapped you because you laughed.
2) He pushed you down a flight of stairs.
3) He bit you.
4) He tried to force himself on you.
5) You had to get stitches because of him.
6) Your husband physically hurt you more than once. It would have happened again and again.
7) You did this for your daughter.
I run my finger over the tattoo on my shoulder, feeling the small scars he left there with his teeth. If Ryle did these things to me at the highest points of our relationship, what would he be capable of at the lowest?
I fold the list and put it back in my jewelry box for the next time I might need a reminder.
Chapter FiveAtlas
“It was definitely targeted,” Brad says, staring at the graffiti.
Whoever vandalized Bib’s two nights ago decided to hit up my newest restaurant last night. Corrigan’s has two damaged windows, and there’s another message spray painted across the back door.
Fuck u Atlass.
They added ansand underlinedassin my name. I catch myself wanting to laugh at the cleverness, but my mood isn’t making space for humor this morning.
Yesterday, the vandalism barely fazed me. I don’t know if it was because I had just run into Lily and was still riding that high, but this morning I woke up stuck on her apparent avoidance of me. Because of that, the damage to my newest restaurant feels like it’s cutting a little deeper.
“I’ll check the security footage.” I’m hoping it reveals something useful. I still don’t know if I want to go to the police. Maybe if it’s someone I know, I can at least confront them before I’m forced to resort to that.
Brad follows me into my office. I power on the computer and open the security app. I think Brad can feel my frustration, because he doesn’t speak while I search the footage for several minutes.
“There,” Brad says, pointing to the lower left-hand corner of the screen. I slow down the footage until we see a figure.
When I hit play, we both stare in confusion. Someone is curled up on the back steps, unmoving. We watch the screen for about half a minute, until I hit rewind again. According to the time stamp on the footage, the person remains on the steps for over two hours. Without a blanket, in a Boston October.
“Theyslepthere?” Brad says. “They weren’t too worried about getting caught, were they?”
I rewind the footage even more until it shows the person walking into the frame for the first time, a little after one in the morning. Because it’s dark, it’s hard to make out facial features, but they seem young. More like a teenager than an adult.
They snoop around for a few minutes—dig through the dumpster. Check the lock on the back door. Pull out the spray paint and leave their clever message.
Then they use the can of spray paint to attempt to break the windows, but Corrigan’s windows are triple-paned, so the person eventually gets bored, or grows tired of trying to make a big enough hole to fit through like they did at Bib’s. That’s when they proceed to lie down on the back steps, where they fall asleep.
Just before the sun rises, they wake up, look around, and then casually walk away like the entire night never happened.
“Do you recognize him?” Brad asks.
“No. You?”
“Nope.”