with this woman.
“Where are you hurt?” I asked quietly.
“All over,” the woman said, growing weaker now. “I'm Christie Baynard. I’m an agent,” she said, trying to take deep breaths. “I got a call from my office that someone wanted to see the house. I was nearby, I thought I could just swing by and show it. I didn’t think twice.”
She started to cry again as she told me the story of what happened.
“Don’t talk,” I said, “the ambulance should be here soon.”
The sirens could be heard in the distance. “Don’t leave me,” the woman said. “Please don’t leave me. What if he comes back? Please stay with me.”
“My name’s Callie, Callie Weston. It’s okay, Christie, it’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe now.”
“Callie Weston? I know you,” she said faintly. “Please stay.”
I took her hand and spoke gently to her, remembering the fear, remembering the pain, gently getting her hair out of the blood on her face.
“Are you married, Christie?”
“No, husband died five years ago. Three kids, all in college now.” She was growing weaker.
“Don’t talk anymore, Christie. You’re going to be just fine.”
“We’re up here,” I called as I heard the commotion downstairs. “Top of the stairs, first room.”
Guns drawn, the police came in with barrels pointing straight at me.
“It’s okay,” I said, laying my gun on the blood-soaked carpet, raising my hands so they were visible. "She’s been hurt, she needs an ambulance.”
The medics were coming in with a stretcher, so I stood up to walk away to give them access.
“Please don’t leave me, Callie,” Christie said fearfully.
“I’m right here. You’re safe. I’ll stay with you.”
“Can you tell us what happened, ma’am?” the older officer asked.
“My name’s Callie Weston. I am a real estate agent. I brought my clients to see the house. When we pulled into the driveway, a man came running out, jumped in his car and sped away. I got his license number."
“Good work,” he said as I relayed it to him.
“Her name is Christie Baynard. She came to show the property and no one was here yet, so she unlocked the front door and walked through the house, turning on all of the lights. She was expecting a husband and wife to show up.” I told them the story, just as she had told me.
“When she came down the stairs, the prospective Buyer was coming through the front door. She extended her hand to introduce herself, and the man turned, locked the door, and pulled a knife on her.
“She didn’t remember much that happened after that, only that he cut her and she ran up the stairs. When he found her, he hit her and cut her several times with the knife.”
I remembered when I had walked in and found Jason. I remembered the moment it had registered that my life was in danger, and that I was confronting a crazy man. I thought about how terrifying it must have been for her, alone in the house, door locked. I knew well the shock of the unexpected, and how it would have taken her a moment to realize what was happening.
She was in the vacant house with a mad man on the loose. How many times do we show houses in similar situations with no forethought to who we are meeting? But none of it affected me so much as the thoughts of my own night, and part of me wanted to break down as I relived my own memory, my own horror.
So many thoughts ran through my mind – how I would change my showing habits, how I would integrate this into my classes for both men and women, safety rules we would put in place. But the one thing that could always snap me out of my journey into darkness was remembering that I would not allow Jason to continue to terrorize me. I had won. He wasn’t going to hurt me ever again.
“And . . .” the officer prompted me to finish my story.
“Oh, I’m sorry. The assailant must have heard us drive up, because she said he stopped suddenly and ran from the room. She crawled into the
“Where are you hurt?” I asked quietly.
“All over,” the woman said, growing weaker now. “I'm Christie Baynard. I’m an agent,” she said, trying to take deep breaths. “I got a call from my office that someone wanted to see the house. I was nearby, I thought I could just swing by and show it. I didn’t think twice.”
She started to cry again as she told me the story of what happened.
“Don’t talk,” I said, “the ambulance should be here soon.”
The sirens could be heard in the distance. “Don’t leave me,” the woman said. “Please don’t leave me. What if he comes back? Please stay with me.”
“My name’s Callie, Callie Weston. It’s okay, Christie, it’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe now.”
“Callie Weston? I know you,” she said faintly. “Please stay.”
I took her hand and spoke gently to her, remembering the fear, remembering the pain, gently getting her hair out of the blood on her face.
“Are you married, Christie?”
“No, husband died five years ago. Three kids, all in college now.” She was growing weaker.
“Don’t talk anymore, Christie. You’re going to be just fine.”
“We’re up here,” I called as I heard the commotion downstairs. “Top of the stairs, first room.”
Guns drawn, the police came in with barrels pointing straight at me.
“It’s okay,” I said, laying my gun on the blood-soaked carpet, raising my hands so they were visible. "She’s been hurt, she needs an ambulance.”
The medics were coming in with a stretcher, so I stood up to walk away to give them access.
“Please don’t leave me, Callie,” Christie said fearfully.
“I’m right here. You’re safe. I’ll stay with you.”
“Can you tell us what happened, ma’am?” the older officer asked.
“My name’s Callie Weston. I am a real estate agent. I brought my clients to see the house. When we pulled into the driveway, a man came running out, jumped in his car and sped away. I got his license number."
“Good work,” he said as I relayed it to him.
“Her name is Christie Baynard. She came to show the property and no one was here yet, so she unlocked the front door and walked through the house, turning on all of the lights. She was expecting a husband and wife to show up.” I told them the story, just as she had told me.
“When she came down the stairs, the prospective Buyer was coming through the front door. She extended her hand to introduce herself, and the man turned, locked the door, and pulled a knife on her.
“She didn’t remember much that happened after that, only that he cut her and she ran up the stairs. When he found her, he hit her and cut her several times with the knife.”
I remembered when I had walked in and found Jason. I remembered the moment it had registered that my life was in danger, and that I was confronting a crazy man. I thought about how terrifying it must have been for her, alone in the house, door locked. I knew well the shock of the unexpected, and how it would have taken her a moment to realize what was happening.
She was in the vacant house with a mad man on the loose. How many times do we show houses in similar situations with no forethought to who we are meeting? But none of it affected me so much as the thoughts of my own night, and part of me wanted to break down as I relived my own memory, my own horror.
So many thoughts ran through my mind – how I would change my showing habits, how I would integrate this into my classes for both men and women, safety rules we would put in place. But the one thing that could always snap me out of my journey into darkness was remembering that I would not allow Jason to continue to terrorize me. I had won. He wasn’t going to hurt me ever again.
“And . . .” the officer prompted me to finish my story.
“Oh, I’m sorry. The assailant must have heard us drive up, because she said he stopped suddenly and ran from the room. She crawled into the
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