He’d left messages on my answering machine. First he was sweet, apologetic, trying to get me to change my mind. Hey, baby, we can work this out. Come on, you know I love you. And then, the more he drank, the more the belligerent side of him came out. The profanity. The abuse. The names. The threats. He called me things I wouldn’t repeat to anyone, sweetheart, least of all you.

I could have had him arrested, but what would that have done? Soon enough, he’d be back on the street, madder than he was before. No, our day was coming. I didn’t know when, but that was why I was sitting alone in the darkness, my gun within reach.

My father had left me a message, too. He was on the road somewhere, drunk and feeling bad. He promised me he’d call more, which was the same promise he made every year, but it never worked out that way. I understood. We loved each other, but we led separate lives. For a long time, I’d thought it was because we were all loners, me, him, and my brother. But that was never really true. It was losing my mom that split us apart. We each went off into our separate caves to grieve, and we never came back out.

There was also something in his voice on the answering machine. It was in his tone, not what he actually said, like he was regretting things in his life that he should have changed and never had. It made me wonder if he was ill. Another few months would prove me right about that.

I was half a pack of cigarettes into my night when I saw headlights in the driveway. Just like that, I was on my feet, my gun cocked and in my hand. I knew the engine rumble of Ricky’s truck, and this wasn’t it, but he’d be sly enough to borrow someone else’s vehicle when he came to get me. The headlights went off before I could see who it was. I heard footsteps approaching the front door, and then somebody called my name in a kind of hush.

“Rebecca?”

It was Ajax.

I stood on the other side of the door, not moving, not answering.

“Come on, Rebecca, I know you’re in there.”

He wasn’t going to go away. I turned on the light in the hallway and opened the door wide enough that he could see the gun in my hand. He put his hands in the air and grinned his typical Ajax grin.

“Don’t shoot,” he said.

“What do you want?”

He was wearing his deputy’s uniform, and his squad car was in the driveway. “Seems like you and me need to figure out how to work together.”

“Seems like you need to keep your hands off me,” I said.