He had threatened crazy things, like putting a tracker on my belongings and following me to work. Like finding my parents. He insulted Pansy with the nastiest, crudest words, drunk with a bottle in his hand, on countless nights in this yard. He brought up their past. Astoria’s personal information, which was a breach of trust of the deepest kind, of the person he used to call his wife. The things he screamed were beyond reproach, and it went on for hours and hours into the night. There weren’t neighbors to hear any of this for miles. I didn’t know whether to be grateful or not for the small mercy of saving our house that shame. He had smashed the same French doors I just ran through one night months ago. He had put his hands on Pansy, too, just for a second. He grabbed her by her shirt. I remembered that night all too well, and the way I felt like my heart was in my throat. I don’t even remember what I did or said or saw because my vision was bleary eyed from the tears of terror and everything sounded garbled in my panic. I thought he was going for me next. But he just froze, dropped her blouse, and stalked out the door. 