Then I remembered that my purse, wallet, and phone were inside the truck.
Kyle had asked me to buy him an energy drink. Because I believed we would be there for only two minutes, I had left everything behind.
Inside the store, I asked the clerk to use the telephone.
“The pay phone is around back,” he said without looking away from his television.
“I don’t have any money. My husband left with my belongings.”
“They usually come back. Wait outside.”
The pay phone had been damaged and no longer worked. I returned to the curb and sat in the narrow strip of shade beside the building.
That was when I finally understood that the incident was not an isolated joke. It was the latest cruelty in a pattern I had spent years pretending not to see.
Kyle and his brothers had hidden my car keys before an important interview, causing me to miss it. They had placed a realistic eviction notice on our apartment door and watched me pack in tears before admitting it was fake. They made frightening telephone calls, ruined my clothes, and filmed my reactions whenever possible.
