You just really had to love a guy who sincerely liked his women well-rounded.
Once he disappeared around the corner, she focused on the task at hand. It wasn’t easy putting on a successful Halloween party. The devil was, indeed, in the details…or the vampire, or zombie, or whatever ghoulish creature one chose to be. No fairies, butterflies, or ballerina princesses in pink tutus at her extravaganza! Nope, a Reid Halloween party was not for the squeamish. She had been present at enough crime scenes to know what real gore looked like…unfortunately.
And now, there were decisions to make. In a dimly lit room, which would feel the most like real eyeballs, olives or peeled grapes? Grapes were best, and she could probably pawn the tedious task of peeling them off on her best friend and codetective, Tammy Hart. So—
“Sit down, you stupid little shit, before I knock you in the head!”
Savannah jumped, nearly dropping the bag of grapes in her hand, and whirled around to face the angry male standing about ten feet behind her. He wasn’t a particularly large man, but he towered over the tiny toddler sitting in the shopping cart. The child, a little boy no more than two, stared up at the enraged adult with terror on his innocent, baby face.
Not for the first time when witnessing something like this, Savannah longed for the old days when she could walk up to a bully like this, flash a badge, and have a serious talk with him. When she and Dirk had been on patrol, they had done it at least five times a night.
She knew better than most that domestic abuse, in all its hideous forms, kept law enforcement employed.
Beside the man’s cart stood a woman with a bag of potatoes in her hand, a guarded, pained look on her face. In spite of the fact that she was well-dressed and wearing expensive jewelry, she had an air of defeat about her. The hang of her head, the slump of her shoulders betrayed a wounded, heavy spirit.
She started to put the potatoes into the cart, but the man snatched them out of her hand. “Baking potatoes?” he snapped. “I told you to get red potatoes. What’s the matter with you? Can’t you do anything right?”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered as she took the bag of potatoes from him and replaced them in a bin. “I forgot.”
She picked up a bag of red potatoes, and as she put them into the cart, the child strained in his seat, reaching for his mother. The father raised his hand as though to strike the boy, and the child cringed in a move that was obviously well-practiced.
“You try to get out of that cart one more time,” the man said, “and I swear I’m gonna bash you.”
“Honey, please, don’t…” the mother whispered, casting a quick look around. She saw Savannah watching, and a look of pain and embarrassment swept over her face.
“Yeah, well,” he said, “you don’t discipline the little brat. Somebody’s got to, so shut up already.”
The man looked in Savannah’s direction and realized that she was not only watching but also disapproving of his words and actions. But instead of sharing his wife’s embarrassment, he actually smiled. The self-satisfied, cocky smirk that appeared on his face was one she had seen many times before. Far too many times.
Savannah could feel her pulse rate soaring, her face growing hotter by the second.
Yeah, yeah, you’re the big man, she thought. Gotta show everybody how in control you are. You keep your woman and your kid in their place—under you where they belong. Way under you.
She gave him a sweeping, disgusted look up and down and added, What you need is somebody to jerk you down a notch or two.
Another voice in her head whispered a word of warning. It’s not yours, Savannah. It’s not your situation. Stay out of it. Mind your own business.
“I thought you said you were coming in here for a couple of things,” he told his wife. “I’ve got better things to do than hang around in a damned grocery store all day. Get your lazy ass in gear, and let’s get out of here.”
Again, he shot Savannah that arrogant grin that set her teeth on edge. She thought of all the times she had heard the myth, “Abusers have low self-esteem. That’s why they abuse.”
I know your nasty little secret, she thought as their eyes locked in an unspoken challenge. You don’t have an insecure bone in your body. You truly think you’re better, smarter, stronger, more valuable than your wife and kid. You think the world revolves around you.
Savannah had seen the end results of such an attitude: broken homes, broken women, broken children. She despised the attitude. And she tried very hard not to despise the men who harbored it. She tried desperately to give them a break, remembering that a rotten attitude was often handed down generation to generation, a sickening heritage, like some sort of decomposing corpse in the family cellar.
But she seldom succeeded. Too many years of too many visions of too many victims haunted her in the wee hours of the morning when she woke up from a nightmare and couldn’t get back to sleep.
Some people were good enough, highly evolved enough, to forgive and feel compassion toward abusers.
Long ago, Savannah had come to terms with the fact that she wasn’t one of them.
The wife walked away from her husband and baby and began to sort through some bananas. Savannah could see her hands shaking as she reached for a bunch and tried to shove them into a plastic bag as quickly as she could. But her fear made her clumsy, and her husband glared at her as she fumbled and nearly dropped the bag.
Shaking his head with disgust, he said, “I’m gonna go up front and get in line. You better be up there in two minutes. Two minutes, you hear me?” He looked at his watch, marking the time.
“Yes. I hear you,” his wife mumbled.
Savannah gave him her best You Rotten Creep, I Hate You look as he walked away, but he sent her a nasty little smirk in return. She knew the game all too well. He had just shown her that he ruled his family, that he could do anything he wanted to his wife and kid, and even though she obviously disapproved, there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.
As far as he was concerned, it was a game. A game he enjoyed because he always won.
The moment he was out of sight, Savannah reached into her purse, pulled out a notepad and pen, and scribbled down a phone number: 1-800-799-7233. Glancing around to make sure he was gone, she hurried over to the woman, who was grabbing apples and dropping them into a bag. Savannah shoved the paper into the woman’s hand.
“Here,” she said. “That’s the number for the National Domestic Violence Hotline. They can help you. Please call them.”
The woman’s eyes widened, and her mouth opened and closed several times. “Domestic Violence? But…but…I don’t need, I mean, he doesn’t…”
“He doesn’t?” Savannah gave her a sad, knowing look. “Call the number, sweetie,” she said, her voice soft and pleading. “They’ll help. Really. You don’t need to be alone.”
Tears filled the woman’s eyes, and she blinked several times. Then she shoved the paper deep into her purse.
“What the hell’s going on here?” Again, Savannah heard the angry male voice behind her. She spun around. He was practically on top of her, his face red with rage. “What are you doing talking to my wife? What did you give her?”
Savannah felt her fists tighten as the warrior inside her rose to fighting stance. Oh…she was in it now.
She fixed him with a cold, defiant stare. “I beg your pardon,” she said without the slightest hint of apology in her tone. “Are you speaking to me?”
“You’re damned right I’m talking