My High School Crush Broke Down In A Storm — But Her Car Wasn’t The Real Emergency
Part 2
The photo glowed harshly in the dark van, showing Dan’s lifted pickup truck idling directly in front of Brenda’s childhood home.
Brenda completely stopped shaking.
The sheer panic had made her tremble earlier, but this new, concentrated terror made her go completely still.
She whispered her mother’s name like a prayer.
I told her to call the house immediately.
She tapped the screen with wet fingers and held the phone to her ear.
It rang five times with no answer.
She tried again, but the call went straight to a generic voicemail.
I was already moving toward the driver’s seat.
I told her to get in the van right now.
She did not argue or hesitate for a second.
I slammed my heavy toolbox shut, killed the external work light, and jumped behind the steering wheel.
Brenda climbed in beside me, clutching her phone like it was the only thing keeping her anchored to the earth.
I asked for the address, but she barely had to describe the white house with blue shutters on Maple Street.
I knew exactly where it was because I had ridden my bike past it a hundred times in high school.
I pulled onto the slick road hard enough for the tires to hiss violently across the standing water.
Brenda tried calling her mother a third time.
Still no answer.
She stared out the window and quietly confessed that Dan had showed up at the restaurant where she was having dinner with her mom.
She told me he had demanded she take him back in front of the entire crowded room.
When she refused, he grabbed her wrist under the table hard enough to leave deep, ugly bruises.
Her mother had stood up and publicly ordered him to leave them alone.
Dan had followed them home in a blinding rage.
I drove significantly faster.
The storm made every single mile stretch into an eternity.
Water pooled dangerously at the dark intersections.
By the time we finally reached Maple Street, my pulse was pounding fiercely in my ears.
The familiar white house sat quietly halfway down the residential block.
The front porch light was glaring, but Dan’s truck was nowhere to be seen.
I parked the van aggressively across the street and threw it into park.
I told Brenda to stay in the vehicle, but she was already out the door.
We ran across the wet lawn and stopped dead at the front steps.
The front door was hanging open about two inches in the wind.
Brenda froze and called out for her mother into the dark hallway.
There was no answer from inside.
I stepped ahead of her and pushed the heavy door open with two fingers.
The living room lamp had been knocked over.
A ceramic vase was shattered near the hallway runner rug.
We heard a muffled thump coming from the back kitchen.
I grabbed a heavy solid brass umbrella stand from the entryway and moved cautiously down the hall.
I told Brenda to stay directly behind me.
We found her mother sitting on the kitchen floor, leaning against the oak cabinets.
She had one hand pressed tightly to her temple, and thick blood was running between her fingers.
Brenda dropped to her knees beside her and grabbed a clean dish towel.
She pressed it firmly against her mother’s bleeding head.
Mrs.
Bennett blinked slowly and whispered that Dan had come looking for her.
I asked where he was right now.
The older woman pointed a shaking finger toward the back door, which was hanging wide open to the storm.
Then I heard a faint, deliberate click from the dark backyard.
Brenda’s phone buzzed violently in her pocket.
She pulled it out and stared at another photo message.
This one showed all three of us huddled in the kitchen, taken from just outside the window.
The caption read that I should have stayed out of his business.
I grabbed the phone from her hands and immediately dialed emergency services.
I told Brenda to lock the front door and stay away from all the glass.
I moved toward the back door and slammed it shut.
I locked the deadbolt just as heavy boots hit the porch steps, but would a wooden door be enough to stop a man who had already decided he owned her?
