He got up, wincing with pain but otherwise quiet as he walked, steadily as he could, from the room.
In the living room, he picked up the cordless where it still lay on the coffee table. He fully expected the movie cliché to come true and to find that when he tried to call 911, he would get no dial tone, that Martha Williams had severed the phone line. But when he pressed the button to activate the phone, a welcoming hum greeted him.
He made his way into the kitchen and saw the back door still partially open, the glass pane above the doorknob broken. On the slate tile floor, the glass lay in shatters, much like Martha Williams’s mind, he couldn’t help but think.
He looked outside at the still, hot, and humid day, took a deep breath, and punched in the digits that would bring them aid.Epilogue