What’s the most scared you’ve ever been?

Recovery and the Ongoing Fight for Safety

The ER is crowded, but they take me straight back because of the throat injury. A nurse checks my vitals again, and a doctor orders X-rays of my neck and shoulder. The X-ray tech positions me different ways and tells me to hold still while the machine clicks.

Back in the exam room, they put ice on my shoulder. The doctor shows me the images on a computer screen. There’s dark bruising all along my windpipe and something called a bone bruise where the crowbar first hit my shoulder. The doctor says I’m lucky because a direct hit could have crushed my windpipe completely.

They give me prescriptions for pain meds and tell me to rest my voice for a few days. While I’m waiting for discharge papers, a detective walks in wearing a gray suit. She introduces herself as Detective Safia Penn and asks if I’m up for giving my full statement.

She pulls out a recorder and has me go through everything from when Kloe first asked me to watch the shop. I tell her about Kloe showing me the panic button and how scared she was this morning. Penn asks specific questions about Wilson’s behavior and what exactly he said about commissions.

She wants to know every detail about him showing me Kloe’s wallet and the photo of the smashed car. I describe how he swung the crowbar and broke through the door piece by piece. She has me explain exactly how he grabbed me and pressed the crowbar against my throat. Penn asks me to describe his breathing and if I noticed alcohol on his breath.

The door flies open and Kloe rushes in with mascara streaked all down her face. She’s apologizing over and over and trying to hug me while sobbing about how sorry she is. Part of me wants to be mad at her for not warning me better about how dangerous Wilson was.

She looks so broken and scared that I just let her hold me while she cries. Penn waits for Kloe to calm down, then explains what she’s figured out so far. Wilson probably followed Kloe to the courthouse this morning and waited for her to go inside.

He smashed her car window to steal her wallet and keys, then came to the shop. Penn says the fact that he planned it all out makes the charges way more serious. Kloe keeps saying she should have told me more about his temper and his drinking problem.

Penn takes notes about everything Kloe knows about Wilson, including where he might be staying. The nurse comes back with my discharge papers and instructions about watching for breathing problems. Kloe drives me to my car at the shop where there’s still glass everywhere and yellow tape across the door.

My phone starts buzzing with texts from people asking if I’m okay. Someone already posted a video of Wilson getting arrested and it has thousands of views in just a few hours. The comments are brutal, with most people blaming Kloe for hiring him in the first place. They’re saying she should have seen the warning signs and never let him work there.

Kloe calls a locksmith to meet us at the shop to secure everything before dark. We wait in the car, watching people slow down to look at the damage. The locksmith arrives and starts measuring for a metal grate to go over the new door. A boarding company shows up to cover the broken window with plywood.

Every bang of the hammer makes me flinch and Kloe grabs my hand each time. The locksmith drills holes for the great mounting and the sound reminds me of the crowbar hitting glass. It takes them two hours to secure everything and Chloe writes them checks with shaking hands.

That evening, I’m trying to eat dinner when Penn calls my cell. She says Wilson made bail, but they put a GPS ankle monitor on him. He can’t come within 500 ft of the shop or either of our homes. If he violates it, even once he goes straight to jail.

I still get up three times to check that my apartment door is locked. Kloe texts asking if I’ll come stay at her place because she’s too scared to be alone. I pack a bag and drive over even though I’m exhausted and my shoulder is killing me.

We end up on her couch watching dumb comedies and pretending to laugh at the jokes. Every time a car drives by outside, we both tense up and look at the window. Neither of us mentions it, but we’re both listening for footsteps or breaking glass.

Around midnight, we try to sleep, but keep checking our phones every few minutes. At 2:00 in the morning, a car door slams outside and I’m instantly wide awake. My heart is pounding and I grab my phone ready to call 911. Kloe’s awake, too, and we’re both frozen on the couch, not even breathing.

We listen for more sounds and finally hear voices. We realize it’s just her neighbor coming home late from a bar. Neither of us slept much after that. When the sun came up, we headed to the shop to meet the contractors Khloe had called.

The main guy walked around the storefront, shaking his head and running his hands along the door frame. He pulled out a chunk of wood that just crumbled in his fingers. He showed us how Wilson hadn’t just smashed the glass, but had bent the whole metal frame out of shape when he was swinging that crowbar.

Now the entire thing needed replacing instead of just new glass. He typed numbers into his phone and showed Kloe the new estimate, which was double what she’d expected. Her face went white. While the contractors measured and took photos, we started going through the smash display cases with a clipboard.

We were checking what was still there against Khloe’s inventory sheets. The big pieces were mostly accounted for, but tons of smaller stuff was missing. Rings and bracelets that added up to about $3,000 gone. Kloe kept saying Wilson must have grabbed handfuls while he was destroying everything.

There was no way to prove what he took versus what might have just gotten lost in all that broken glass. She wanted to open back up right away, even with the board still covering half the storefront. She was bleeding money every day they stayed closed.

I told her I wasn’t ready to be back in that space yet. She got mad, saying she understood I was scared. She said she had bills to pay and couldn’t afford to wait until I felt better. We stood there arguing in front of the boarded window.

I could tell she was about to cry from frustration when a car pulled up and her landlord got out looking pissed. He walked straight up to us, demanding to know what happened to his property. He asked whether Kloe’s insurance was going to cover all the damage.

He kept pointing at the plywood and the bent door frame, saying this was exactly the kind of trouble he didn’t need. He suggested maybe it was time to think about whether a jewelry store was really the right fit for his building.

Kloe tried explaining about the restraining order and how Wilson was wearing an ankle monitor now. But the landlord just shook his head. He said he’d think about whether to renew her lease when it came up in 3 months. After he left, Khloe’s phone rang.

It was someone from the prosecutor’s office saying they were charging Wilson with assault, burglary, vandalism, and theft. The woman on the phone said her name was Danielle Mayer and she’d be handling the case. She warned I’d probably need to testify if Wilson didn’t take a plea deal.

She gave us her direct number and said to call if we remembered any other details about the attack. That night, I was heating up soup when my phone buzzed with a voicemail from a blocked number. The voice was muffled, but I could still make out the words.

The voice was muffled, but I could still make out the words telling me I should think real carefully about what I say to the cops about Wilson.

My hands started shaking because I recognized the voice as someone who used to work at Khloe’s shop with Wilson. It was another guy who’d quit a few months back. I called Penn right away and played her the message over the phone.

She came to my apartment within an hour with a notebook. She had me write down everything I remembered about the voice and what exactly was said. She helped me file a report about the threat. Then she pulled out a map of my neighborhood, marking different routes I could take home from work and the gym.

She gave me her personal cell number and two other emergency contacts. She also suggested we come up with a code word I could text Kloe if something felt wrong, and we picked “inventory” since it would seem normal for the shop.

Penn also showed me how to share my location with Khloe’s phone. She suggested I vary my routine so nobody could predict where I’d be. Before she left, she mentioned a self-defense class at the community center that was starting next week. She thought it might help me feel more in control.

I signed up online that night and the instructor emailed me right back. He sent links to videos about staying aware of your surroundings and basic escape moves if someone grabs you. The next day, we went back to the shop to keep cleaning up.

I was sweeping glass into a dustpan when I felt something slice into my palm. Blood started dripping onto the floor and Chloe rushed over with the first aid kit. She was wrapping my hand while we both just stood there realizing how messed up this all was. She kept apologizing while she taped the bandage.

I noticed her hands had little cuts all over them too from handling broken pieces all morning. We were both walking around damaged, trying to put things back together. Our bodies kept finding new ways to remind us what happened here.

The insurance adjuster showed up while my hand was still throbbing and started taking photos of everything. He kept making comments about how some of the display cases looked old already. He asked if we were sure they were all in perfect condition before.

Kloe had to dig through her phone finding photos from the week before that showed all the cases intact. Even then, he kept suggesting that some of the damage might have been there already. He measured every crack and documented each broken piece. You could tell he was looking for ways to pay out less money.

Kloe pulled up receipts on her laptop showing when she’d bought each display case and how much they cost new. But the adjuster just kept writing in his notebook. He kept saying he’d have to review everything with his supervisor.

We spent 2 hours going through every damaged item while he questioned whether things were really worth what Kloe claimed. He questioned whether Wilson had actually caused all the damage or if some of it was wear and tear. The adjuster finally left after 3 hours and Kloe slumped against the counter looking defeated.

We locked up and walked to the coffee shop down the street where she ordered two lattes with shaky hands. She stirred sugar into her cup for way too long before looking up at me with red eyes. She said she knew Wilson had a temper when she hired him.

She explained the shop was so busy during the holidays that she needed the help. She’d seen him get mad at customers who took too long deciding. Once he’d punched the wall in the back room when a shipment came in wrong.

But he showed up on time and could move heavy boxes, and she kept telling herself it would be fine once the busy season ended. I pushed my coffee away and told her straight up that I’d keep helping, but only if she promised to put safety first from now on.

No more ignoring red flags just to keep the shop running. She nodded and pulled out her phone to look up security companies. I made a list of new rules like always having two people in the shop and installing more cameras.

We were still writing everything down when my phone rang with a number I didn’t know. The guy on the other end said he was a reporter from the local paper. He wanted our side of the story because Wilson’s friends were posting all over social media saying Khloe owed him thousands in commissions.

I told him we’d only give facts about the attack and nothing else. Then hung up when he kept pushing for more details. My phone immediately rang again and this time it was my mom who’d seen the news story online. She was crying and begging me to stop helping at the shop.

She said no amount of money was worth getting killed over. I couldn’t really argue with her and promised to think about it. But we both knew I wasn’t going to abandon Chloe now. Three days later, we sat in the back row of the courtroom for Wilson’s bail hearing.

The prosecutor wanted him held without bail, but the judge decided to keep him out with more rules instead. Wilson had to do random drug tests, couldn’t drink any alcohol, and had to be home by 8 every night. Penn leaned over and whispered that this was normal for assault cases, even though it felt wrong to me.

The judge kept going, saying the GPS monitor would send an alert if Wilson came within 500 ft of the shop, our apartments, or the courthouse. If he violated any of these rules, he’d go straight to jail. Wilson stood there in a suit that didn’t fit right, nodding at everything the judge said.

His lawyer, Conrad Lo, kept putting his hand on Wilson’s shoulder. The next week, Kloe and I spent the whole morning at her kitchen table getting ready for the restraining order hearing.

We had printed out every threatening text, photos of all the damage, copies of the police reports, medical records from my ER visit, and witness statements from people who’d seen Wilson’s behavior at the shop before.

The stack of papers was almost 2 in thick, and looking at it altogether made my stomach hurt. In court that afternoon, Wilson’s lawyer stood up and called the whole thing a misunderstanding about wages that got out of hand.

He said Wilson was just trying to collect money he was owed. He claimed things escalated when we wouldn’t listen to him. The judge cut him off and asked if he was really trying to minimize an attack with a deadly weapon. Conrad Low started to answer, but the judge was already looking through our evidence pile.

She spent 10 minutes reading everything while we all sat there in silence. Then she looked up and said she was granting a three-year restraining order covering both me and Kloe plus the shop location. Wilson couldn’t contact us directly or through other people.

He had to turn in any guns or weapons he owned within 24 hours. We walked out of the courtroom and immediately some guy started filming us with his phone. Kloe asked him to stop, but he kept recording and asking if we had any comment about the case.

Two court security officers came over and told the guy to leave. They then walked us through a back hallway to the parking garage. One of them stayed with us until we got to our cars and made sure nobody else was following us.

Chloe hugged me in the parking garage and we both started crying. It felt like we could finally breathe again, even though we knew this wasn’t really over. The next morning, a woman from victim services called and walked me through applying for compensation funds.

These funds could cover my medical bills and the days I’d missed from my regular job. She explained the forms I needed to fill out and where to get copies of my medical records. Then she connected me with a therapist who specialized in violent crime victims.

My first appointment was 3 days later in a small office downtown. The therapist had me describe exactly what happened. When I got to the part about the crowbar against my throat, my hand went up to touch the spot without thinking.

She showed me this grounding exercise where I press my feet flat on the floor and count five things I can see, four I can hear, three I can touch, two I can smell, and one I can taste. This sounds dumb, but actually helped when the memories started feeling too real.

Meanwhile, Kloe decided to do a soft reopening with just her regular customers. These customers had been texting asking when she’d be back. She kept the boarded section up while contractors worked on permanent repairs.

I helped her that first morning back and watched three different customers bring flowers. One older lady brought a whole tray of cookies, which made Kloe cry. Then I was crying, too, because people were being so nice.

The insurance adjuster finally called after 3 weeks of back and forth with a check that covered most of the damage. It also provided enough extra for Kloe to upgrade the whole security system. This included better cameras that recorded to the cloud and panic buttons in three spots instead of just one.

Detective Penn called me two days later saying Wilson had taken a plea deal. The deal was for two years probation with anger management classes and monthly restitution payments to cover what insurance didn’t. This meant no prison time, but at least we wouldn’t have to testify at trial.

I’d been going to self-defense classes at the community center. During my third class, the instructor had me practice breaking out of different holds. When he grabbed me from behind in a choke hold, I remembered the steps and actually broke free on my first try.

The instructor said my muscle memory was developing faster than most students. I actually believed I might be able to defend myself better if something happened again. 3 weeks after the attack, Kloe and I had this whole new routine where we texted each other.

We texted when we got home safe every night. The shop always had at least two people working, even during slow times. We’d moved the panic buttons to spots near the door, register, and back office. We weren’t the same people we’d been before Wilson smashed through that door.

But we were functioning, getting through each day without jumping at every sound. Looking back from where we are now, we’re not magically healed or anything. But the shop is more secure than it’s ever been with the new cameras and alarms.

We both have therapists we see regularly. Wilson can’t come near us without going straight to jail. Most importantly, we’ve proven to ourselves that we can survive the worst thing we could imagine and keep going.

Thanks for hanging out with me today. Seriously, life’s always throwing lessons at us if we actually stop and pay attention until we cross paths again, my friend. If you made it to the end, drop a comment. I love reading all your comments.