Sunday, December 16
My friend Rachel is friends with a locksmith named Kurt. I called Rachel and left a voicemail saying I was divorcing JB and needed my locks changed. Rachel, a big phone call screener, called back immediately.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I just, I can’t believe it. I never thought JB was like that. He doesn’t seem the type.”
“No one can believe it, including me. And I lived with him for twenty-one years. It’s creepy. Disorienting. I trust nothing. It feels bad.”
“You should definitely change your locks,” Rachel said. “Are you worried he might do something?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know who he is. I don’t know what he’s capable of. He throws tantrums. Like, I’d be cooking and hear something crash by the back door and a burst of muffled swearing. I’d go to the door and find JB hyperventilating over a computer he just smashed or a broken phone on the floor. The boys have seen him wringing his hands over things like a gas pump not working right, or a bad golf swing.
“A counselor at Blake’s high school was killed by her ex. He drove to her house and killed her, the kids, then himself. Everyone thought he was a nice normal guy.”
“I’m calling Kurt right now,” Rachel said. “I’ll give him your number.”
Kurt called me right back. He’s coming over to change the locks tomorrow.