One We Love, The by Donna White Glaser Read Free Book Online Page A

women have to sneak
around like they’re the problem? Most of their abusers are cowards and bullies who
aren’t going to risk having witnesses for their actions. This way, we don’t
have to keep our offices in a separate facility, and we can openly educate the
community on domestic violence issues.”
    “Most of the abusers,” I repeated. “But not all. What about
the ones who aren’t going to be stopped by a bunch of women? A neighborhood
watch might not be enough.” Having been the victim of a stalker a few months
ago, I knew the risk these women were taking. Knew it very well.
    Astrid sighed. “There are pros and cons to both approaches. If
it were up to me, I’d have gone with keeping the place secret. They just went
with what seemed the most practical at the time.”
    I noted the ‘I-they’ comment.
    “But I understand your concerns,” she continued. “Let me
assure you, I take my job very seriously. At any rate, I keep them safe here at
the shelter. The problems start when they go out into the real world, don’t
they?”   
    Astrid’s eyes were soft and gentle, telling me she knew
about my past.
    Enough bonding.
    “Did the cameras record Regina’s fall?”
    Astrid stiffened, the tenderness slipping off her face like
it had been greased. “No. The cameras aren’t. . .well, never mind. What a morbid thought.”
    She stood abruptly, shoving past my knees and out the door
in a heartbeat. She held it open, waves of disapproval radiating off her body.
    “I’m sorry. That was tactless.” Meekly, I followed her into
the dim hallway. “Regina told me to watch out for irritability or sudden
outbursts of anger after . . .  You know.” Tactless and heartless. I had
no compunction about using Regina’s name or Astrid’s awareness of my history to
my advantage. Not under these circumstances. And Astrid would be well-versed in
the symptoms of posttraumatic stress disorder, the changes that occur after
one’s very life has been threatened. She also knew about my former boyfriend’s
death. I’d talked about it one night, months ago, when Regina had dragged me to
a group here.
    It must have worked. Astrid calmed a bit, the blaze dropping
from her eyes.
    Pressing ahead, I pulled the client list she’d given me the
day before from my purse. “You said that this is Regina’s current client list.
Does that mean that these women are still in residence?” I already knew the
answer from my file review yesterday, but I needed to re-engage her.
    She took the list, scanning it. “Yes, well, at least most of
them are. These two—” she pointed at two names—“were discharged a few weeks
ago. They were meeting with Regina once a week for outpatient counseling. I
don’t see Karissa here, though. Maybe because she left. She took off with her kids
the Sunday before last. I’m worried about her. She’d only been here a few days,
and I don’t think she was at all ready to leave.”
    “A week ago Sunday? The day after Regina’s accident?” I
asked.  
    Before she could answer, a voice from the kitchen said, “Astrid?
Who are you talking to?”
    We both jumped.
    A tall, Junoesque figure stood shadowed in the kitchen
doorway, a cup of coffee steaming in her hand.
    “Good morning, Lachlyn,” I said, walking forward. My heart
thumped as hard as if I was facing an IRS auditor. In fact, that would be
preferable.
    The figure stepped back as I approached, moving from the
dark hall into the morning light of the kitchen. Clotilde—not Lachlyn.
    “Oh, I’m sorry, Clotilde. I thought you were—”
    “Are you here to meet with Lachlyn?” she interrupted in a
distinct, your-explanations-mean- nothing -to-me tone.
    Almost hurt my feelings.
    “Not today, I’m afraid. I’m going to give her a call and set
something up. Speaking of appointments, do you know where Regina’s calendar is?
Nobody seems to know what kind of system she used to keep track.”
    We eye-dueled for several moments before Clotilde smiled