Savage Row - Britney King Page 0,21

which is precisely what I love about him. How can I reconcile the two? If he walks away now, he’ll lose big. Not just financially, but emotionally. Everything he is, everything he has, is quite literally tied up in making this venture work. If he doesn’t woo these investors, I’m not sure what will happen. So I understand where he’s coming from and why he has to go tonight. I’m not sure when the right time to explain to people considering investing in your tech that your family is dealing with a stalker, —and a convicted child rapist at that—but I assume this isn’t it.

Before he leaves, he puts in a call to a police officer that is a friend of a friend. Greg puts the call on speaker as the man inquires about our security system. He listens intently, and then with a hint of pity in his voice, he advises us to upgrade. He asks about our experience with firearms, and while we don’t say that we have none, that is pretty much what we mean.

I can tell this is not what he was hoping to hear, but Greg and I agreed a long time ago about guns. Back when we were pregnant with Naomi, we interviewed pediatricians. It was a question that seemed to come up every time, the question about firearms. Most parents don’t think about it until it’s too late, one of the doctors had said. Gun safety. Glad, if not a little smug that we didn’t have to worry about that, we agreed that we would never have a gun in the house.

The officer suggests that we rethink our position. Afterward Greg points out that is his job; he’s a cop. He knows guns. We don’t.

I don’t know what to think. Just a few days ago, if anyone had asked me about the problems of my life, purchasing a weapon would have been the last thing I would have listed.

And the cold, hard truth is we really can’t afford to upgrade the security system. Not right now. Not without blowing our emergency savings, and not unless we put it on credit, which is another thing we agreed we’d never do.

Greg’s transmission blew two months ago. Then last month Blair dropped a toy in the toilet and thought the best fix was simply to flush, flooding the upstairs bathroom and the mudroom below. Between the car repair and our homeowner’s insurance deductible, we’re still working on building our emergency fund back up.

“We could ask my parents,” Greg suggests, knowing what my response will be. We can’t ask mine. So his are off the table too.

“We are not asking your parents.” I roll my eyes. “God, we’re not that desperate.”

“We can’t put it on credit,” Greg tells me, reading my thoughts. “What if something else happens?”

“What?” I demand. “What could be worse than this?” And before the words even leave my mouth, I wish I hadn’t said them.

The girls are in bed when Greg returns from his business dinner. He comes in with a stack of mail. Pecking my cheek, he motions toward a letter on the top. It isn’t stamped. Nor does it have a return address. “It was stuffed in the box,” Greg says. He looks tired, and by his expression, I can see that he’s already read it. He slides it across the counter.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Stone,

It pains me greatly to sit back and watch you—to allow you—to take such dangerous risks with your daughters. Children are delicate creatures with fragile bones. Carnival rides are no place for them. Do you know how many carnival-related accidents there are per year? I suggest you do some research. As parents, that is your job.

Children, and girls especially, must be guarded against the evils of this world. They must be fed warm meals, not slop in Styrofoam boxes and plastic bags. Do you know how many food-borne illnesses there are a year? I assume not. Perhaps I should educate you. Before it’s too late.

There are forty-eight million cases of food poisoning each year in the United States alone. That’s sixteen percent of the population. Children are particularly susceptible to hospitalization, and even death.

In the name of God, I beg you to protect your little girls. This world is a dark place, and darkness is always closer to home than one thinks. Amen.

Yours,

A concerned citizen

“He didn’t sign his name,” Greg tells me sarcastically. “Imagine that.”

I bite at my lower lip until I taste blood. “I’m not