Hush Little Baby by Suzanne Redfearn

skin are faint and fade within weeks.
    “Okay. One step at a time. Let’s get your affairs in order, see what’s what, then we’ll figure out how we can get you out of this mess.”
    “Thank you.” I gulp, incredibly grateful he believes me.
    “Do you want me to go to your house and pick up a few of your things?”
    My head moves rapidly side to side. “You need to stay away from him,” I yelp. “If he knows you’re helping me, he’ll kill you.”
    Connor laughs. He thinks I’m joking.
    I raise my eyes to his. “He. Will. Kill. You,” I repeat without exaggeration.
    “I was a DA for eight years. I can take care of myself.”
    My chin drops back to my chest, and Connor lifts it with his finger. “Jinks, if you want to keep Gordon from the kids, eventually we’re going to need to confront him. I know it’s scary, but ROs aren’t just handed out. No judge is going to keep Gordon from the kids without something more than a couple barely-there bruises that won’t show up in a photo and which you have no way of proving Gordon caused.”
    “So what are you suggesting, you knock on the door and ask him whether he’s been beating me up for the last nine years and hope he confesses?” My voice is shrill, my hands flailing.
    Connor is calm, but stone serious. “Not exactly, but yes, we need to hope he gives us something, because if you want custody, we’re going to need some evidence.”
    “The only evidence Gordon’s going to give us is my dead body or yours.”
    Connor’s smile is patronizing, like I’m exaggerating or being overly dramatic, making me realize that though he believes me, he has no idea how bad it is.
    “Well, don’t go there,” I say. “For now, can you just loan me a few bucks so I can buy an outfit for work? Gordon emptied our account and froze our credit cards. I’ll figure out how to get my things another time.”
    He fishes out his wallet and sets three crisp hundred-dollar bills in front of me.
    “Go. Shop. I’m going to work, and when I get there, I’ll call a friend of mine who specializes in icky divorces.”
    Icky divorces. The words stick like a burr.
    He grabs his briefcase and starts for the door. Halfway there, he stops and turns.
    “Last night, Jinks, when you told Gordon you were leaving, why didn’t he hurt you?” It’s said sweetly, but underlying is the interrogation.
    I shake my head. “I’m not entirely sure. In part, it’s because he wasn’t drinking, but I also think it’s because he was expecting it, like he was waiting for it.” I hesitate, embarrassed to confess the rest.
    “And?”
    “And I think it might be because he thinks I’m pregnant.”
    “Are you?”
    I shake my head.
    “And what happens when he finds out you’re not?”
    I lay my head on my forearms, which are crossed in front of me on the counter. “I don’t know. He might leave me alone, but if I try to interfere with the kids, who knows?”

25
    I ’m at Target browsing the aisles for a suitable outfit for work.
    My phone rings the Grease tune “We Go Together,” my dad’s ringtone.
    “Hi, Pops.” I try to sound normal.
    “She found it.”
    It takes more than a second for me to realize what he’s talking about, our seventh diorama, the last piece of our twenty-year quest.
    It feels like a lifetime ago that I was kneeling among the rubble of the other eleven.
    “Did you hear me?”
    “That’s incredible.” I put as much enthusiasm as I can muster into the response.
    “She’s going to send it today. It should be here in three days. Can I come by the house tonight so we can hang the shelf?”
    With his excitement, the dam breaks, and in the underwear aisle, between a clearance rack of polka-dot thongs and bunny slippers, I collapse to the linoleum and sob.
    “Jill?” he asks, and the tightness in his voice transforms my grief to worry.
    “I’m fine.”
    “What did he do?”
    I give up pretending. “I left him.”
    “About time.”
    I breathe.
    “Where are