Anything for story color. “Has her husband come home? Is that why the sudden panic?”
“He called from work and is full of fury. Apparently things have gone badly today, and she and the kids are about to bear the brunt of his frustration if we don’t get her out.”
“Where does she live?”
Stephanie returned to the phone. “Tina, I have someone here who can take you to your mother’s. I want you to tell her how to get to your house.”
I took the phone. “Hi, Tina. I’m Merry. I’ll be glad to drive you where you need to go.”
“I’m scared,” she said, her voice a mere whisper.
“I know. Now tell me how to get to your house.”
She gave me directions hesitantly, pausing several times to yell at a crying child who responded by wailing louder.
“I’ll be there in about ten minutes,” I assured her.
She sniffed. “The kids and I will be waiting. And please, please hurry!”
FIVE
T ina’s cozy, tree-lined street looked like a Norman Rockwell setting made for raising happy, well-adjusted children. I wondered what secrets lived in the other houses.
A new red sports car sat in the driveway of Tina’s home, its sticker still on the window. I glanced at the price as I walked past and flinched. He might be having trouble at work, but obviously he made a good income. Too bad Tom Whatley hadn’t been at Hamblin’s to make the sale. There had to have been a very nice commission on this one.
As I stood on the front step, I could hear raised voices inside, first deep and masculine, then shrill and feminine. Then I distinctly heard a slap and a cry of pain.
Suddenly getting a good bite for my story seemed unimportant, even selfish. A woman’s very life might well be at stake, and journalism faded to insignificance. I put my shaking finger firmly on the bell.
All noise within ceased. Then the woman inside this house began to cry.
I rang again.
The door opened and a floridly handsome man glowered at me from the other side of the storm door. He wore a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing strongarms and wrists. Did he develop those muscles with exercises other than beating on Tina?
“Hi.” I smiled brightly, ignoring the turmoil in my stomach. Not only did I have the long tradition of Nellie Bly and Brenda Starr to uphold; I had right on my side.
“We don’t want any,” he snarled. “I gave at the office. Go away.”
I grabbed the storm door and pulled, praying it wasn’t locked. It wasn’t. The door opened wide. He blinked in surprise at my audacity.
“You must be Tina’s husband. I’m Merry.” I held out my hand and stepped into the house. He was forced to either collide with me or step back. He stepped back. He did not shake my hand.
“Hey, Tina, I’m here,” I called gaily.
She appeared behind her husband, a red handprint clearly visible on her cheek. Her eyes were full of fear, her face wet with tears, but her chin was held at a determined angle.
“Ready to go?” I asked.
“Go?” He sputtered like an outboard motor misfiring. “Go where?” He glared at Tina, then at me.
Tina and I ignored him. She turned and disappeared.
I’d lost her! “Tina?”
She reappeared with two small children, a boy about six and a girl about four, each carrying a little backpack. They looked more frightened than children should ever have to look. The girl had obviously been crying, her face mottled, her nose running.
Tina’s husband turned to her with a roar and grabbed her by the upper arm. She winced, and I knew she’d find a bruise there in a short time.
“Go,” she whispered to the kids. “Out to the car.”
“Mommy?” The girl looked at Tina with huge eyes dripping tears.
“Aren’t you coming, Mom?” the boy asked, trying not to cry.
“I’m coming,” Tina said. With her free hand she shooed the children. “Go.”
“Don’t you dare!” At their father’s voice, both children froze halfway down the steps.
I turned to them and smiled,
“He called from work and is full of fury. Apparently things have gone badly today, and she and the kids are about to bear the brunt of his frustration if we don’t get her out.”
“Where does she live?”
Stephanie returned to the phone. “Tina, I have someone here who can take you to your mother’s. I want you to tell her how to get to your house.”
I took the phone. “Hi, Tina. I’m Merry. I’ll be glad to drive you where you need to go.”
“I’m scared,” she said, her voice a mere whisper.
“I know. Now tell me how to get to your house.”
She gave me directions hesitantly, pausing several times to yell at a crying child who responded by wailing louder.
“I’ll be there in about ten minutes,” I assured her.
She sniffed. “The kids and I will be waiting. And please, please hurry!”
FIVE
T ina’s cozy, tree-lined street looked like a Norman Rockwell setting made for raising happy, well-adjusted children. I wondered what secrets lived in the other houses.
A new red sports car sat in the driveway of Tina’s home, its sticker still on the window. I glanced at the price as I walked past and flinched. He might be having trouble at work, but obviously he made a good income. Too bad Tom Whatley hadn’t been at Hamblin’s to make the sale. There had to have been a very nice commission on this one.
As I stood on the front step, I could hear raised voices inside, first deep and masculine, then shrill and feminine. Then I distinctly heard a slap and a cry of pain.
Suddenly getting a good bite for my story seemed unimportant, even selfish. A woman’s very life might well be at stake, and journalism faded to insignificance. I put my shaking finger firmly on the bell.
All noise within ceased. Then the woman inside this house began to cry.
I rang again.
The door opened and a floridly handsome man glowered at me from the other side of the storm door. He wore a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing strongarms and wrists. Did he develop those muscles with exercises other than beating on Tina?
“Hi.” I smiled brightly, ignoring the turmoil in my stomach. Not only did I have the long tradition of Nellie Bly and Brenda Starr to uphold; I had right on my side.
“We don’t want any,” he snarled. “I gave at the office. Go away.”
I grabbed the storm door and pulled, praying it wasn’t locked. It wasn’t. The door opened wide. He blinked in surprise at my audacity.
“You must be Tina’s husband. I’m Merry.” I held out my hand and stepped into the house. He was forced to either collide with me or step back. He stepped back. He did not shake my hand.
“Hey, Tina, I’m here,” I called gaily.
She appeared behind her husband, a red handprint clearly visible on her cheek. Her eyes were full of fear, her face wet with tears, but her chin was held at a determined angle.
“Ready to go?” I asked.
“Go?” He sputtered like an outboard motor misfiring. “Go where?” He glared at Tina, then at me.
Tina and I ignored him. She turned and disappeared.
I’d lost her! “Tina?”
She reappeared with two small children, a boy about six and a girl about four, each carrying a little backpack. They looked more frightened than children should ever have to look. The girl had obviously been crying, her face mottled, her nose running.
Tina’s husband turned to her with a roar and grabbed her by the upper arm. She winced, and I knew she’d find a bruise there in a short time.
“Go,” she whispered to the kids. “Out to the car.”
“Mommy?” The girl looked at Tina with huge eyes dripping tears.
“Aren’t you coming, Mom?” the boy asked, trying not to cry.
“I’m coming,” Tina said. With her free hand she shooed the children. “Go.”
“Don’t you dare!” At their father’s voice, both children froze halfway down the steps.
I turned to them and smiled,
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