I can turn back and roam the streets for a while, hoping that if I check back later, he will be gone.
“Noya?” I stiffen at the sound of Mrs Crawford’s voice. In a blue bathrobe and with a wary expression, she stands on her porch. “Would you like to come inside for some tea or coffee?”
“Um…” I dart a look at my home and then at Mrs Crawford. “Okay.”
A musky scent fills the air as I step into her home. From beside the door and above the fireplace in the living room, there’s a shotgun. My focus lingers on it, but I don’t stray and follow her into a vintage kitchen with fruit-print curtains, a plastic tablecloth over the table, and white, lacy placemats in front of every seat.
There’s also a wire basket in the centre of the table filled with oranges, bananas and apples.
Mrs Crawford stands at the kettle near the sink. She pours water into two mugs. The scent of instant coffee fills the air.
She hands me a cup with pink and yellow flowers on it. Then, she goes to the cupboard above the sink, takes out a container, and opens it as she sits at the dining table. Sugar cookies fill the tin.
“George—my late husband—used to hide these from me because I’d always indulge a little too much.” She takes three and leans towards me with a mysterious smile. “It’s one thing I don’t miss about him.”
My face is unwavering. Even Mrs Crawford’s light humour cannot reach the muscles. The thought of Dad floats in the back of my mind at the idea that he knows I entered her home. He would cause a scene in front of the woman who wanted to help me.
After adding three teaspoons of sugar, I take a sip of my coffee and stir. The sugar high goes to my head, somewhat energising my slumped, exhausted form.
“Have you been out all night?” Mrs Crawford asks.
I nod, taking another sip of my coffee.
She dunks her biscuit in hers as she says, “It was deafening last night. I’m glad you weren’t there to witness it.”
“Did you…” I bite my lip to hide the hitch in my voice. “Sorry…”
“Speak up, dear. You can ask me anything. Don’t be shy.”
I take a deep breath, desiring to steady the heavy beating of my heart. “Did you, um…see anything?”
“No. He’s good, isn’t he?” Mrs Crawford replies bitterly. “He never takes the argument outside. He knows that once he does, I will be there and record it all. He won’t be able to hide behind his job.” She grimaces. “I’ve also tried reporting him. Called the police many times, but they never respond. They think I’m an old chook looking for trouble because I’m the only one on this street with enough guts to call the police and complain.”
“Thank you,” I murmur. “But you don’t need to do that. I wouldn’t want my dad to come after you, too.”
“Please, dear,” Mrs Crawford scoffs. “He doesn’t scare me. Besides, you should be more worried about yourself. Have you thought about going to a women’s shelter?”
“A few times,” I admit. “But because of Dad’s work, I’m worried he would find me and tell them a twisted story they would believe over mine.”
“You poor thing,” she says. “Well, if you ever need an escape, come here. My door is always open for you.”
“Thank you.”
“Also, may I ask who that boy was last night?”
“Oh…a friend.”
“Hmm…” she says, her smile broadening. “Does he think so?”
“No,” I admit. “But it’s nice to…”
“…feel loved?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad someone makes you feel that way. You need all the love from those around you after the life you lived in that home.”
I lower my gaze and stare at the caramel colour in the mug.