Chapter 8
Natalie was released on bail the next day.
Moe paid it.
$50,000.
He knew she was a flight risk, but he didn’t care.
He had one last play.
If he couldn’t win in court, he’d make us pay another way.
The no-contact order didn’t stop her.
She started calling us from burner phones.
Hundreds of times a day.
Leaving voicemails.
Screaming.
Crying.
Threatening.
“I know where you sleep.”
“I’m gonna pour gasoline on your house and light a match.”
“I’m gonna cut your heart out the way you cut mine out.”
“I’m gonna find Frank’s grave and dig him up and throw his bones in the river.”
The police traced the calls to payphones all over the city.
They never caught her.
We installed new alarms.
We put bars on the ground-floor windows.
We hired a 24-hour security guard to sit in the driveway.
Jackson slept on the couch in the living room with a baseball bat next to him.
I kept a loaded gun in my nightstand, the one Frank had given me for protection after a break-in twenty years ago.
I hoped I’d never have to use it.
But I would.
If she came near my son, I would shoot her without a second thought.
Three weeks after the preliminary hearing, the threats stopped.
For three whole days, the phone didn’t ring.
No voicemails.
No texts.
Nothing.
I told myself she’d skipped town.
That she’d run to Mexico or Canada to hide from the Chicago warrant.
I let myself relax.
Big mistake.
It was 2:37 a.m.
I was asleep in my bed.
Jackson was asleep on the couch.
Judith was asleep in the guest room.
The security guard was outside, walking the perimeter.
I woke up to the sound of glass shattering.
Loud.
Sharp.
From the living room.
My heart stopped.
I grabbed the gun from my nightstand.
I tiptoed to the bedroom door.
I heard screaming.
Natalie.
“Where are you, you old bitch?” she yelled. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
I heard Jackson jump up.
“Get the hell out of my house!” he yelled.
I heard a loud thud.
Then Jackson groaned.
I threw the door open.
I ran down the hall.
Natalie was in the living room.
She’d broken the front window with a brick.
She was holding a kitchen knife in one hand and a can of gasoline in the other.
She’d already splashed gasoline all over the carpet, the couch, the curtains.
The smell was so strong it burned my eyes.
Jackson was on the floor, holding his head.
She’d hit him with the brick.
Judith ran out of the guest room, holding a heavy iron lamp.
Natalie saw me.
Her face lit up with a sick, crazy smile.
“There you are,” she said, calm, like we were having tea. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
She held up a lighter.
Flicked it once.
The small flame danced in the dark.
“Natalie, don’t,” I said, my voice steady, the gun raised. “Put the lighter down. Put the knife down. The police are on their way.”
She laughed.
“Let them come,” she said. “I don’t care anymore. I lost everything because of you. My money. My husband. My freedom. I have nothing left to lose. So we’re all gonna go out together. You, me, your weak son, your stupid sister. We’ll all burn. And Frank can watch from hell.”
She took a step toward me.
The lighter inched closer to the gasoline-soaked carpet.
Jackson pushed himself up off the floor.
He grabbed the baseball bat.
He swung it as hard as he could.
He hit the can of gasoline out of her hand.
It flew across the room, spilling more gas on the floor.
Natalie screamed.
She lunged at him with the knife.
I fired a warning shot into the ceiling.
The bang was deafening.
Natalie froze.
The front door burst open.
Four police officers rushed in, guns drawn.
“Drop the knife!” they yelled. “Drop it now!”
Natalie stared at them.
She looked at me.
She looked at Jackson.
She dropped the knife.
She dropped the lighter.
She raised her hands.
“Fine,” she said, bored. “You win. For now.”
The officers rushed forward.
They cuffed her.
They led her out.
She didn’t say another word.
The paramedics checked Jackson out.
He had a concussion.
Four stitches on his forehead.
But he was okay.
The fire department showed up to ventilate the house and clean up the gasoline.
We sat on the front porch while they worked.
Jackson’s head was bandaged.
Judith held an ice pack to his neck.
The security guard apologized a hundred times for not seeing her climb the side fence.
I told him it wasn’t his fault.
The sun came up slowly over the oak tree.
I watched the sky turn pink and orange.
Natalie was in jail.
No bail this time.
She was charged with attempted arson, aggravated assault, burglary, criminal mischief, violating a restraining order, and terroristic threats.
On top of the bigamy, embezzlement, and perjury charges.
She was looking at twenty years, minimum.
She’d never hurt us again.
Jackson leaned his head on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, sleepy from the pain meds.
“Shhh,” I said, kissing the top of his head. “It’s over. We’re safe now.”
He fell asleep on my shoulder.
May you like
Judith squeezed my hand.
For the first time in months, I felt like I could breathe again.
