Saturday, December 15
Kent and I had breakfast and I told him I was having nightmares that JB might flip out: kill me, himself, our children. Blake had brought the subject up. I was in the basement doing laundry and noticed our shotguns were moved. Blake walked into the basement and asked if I thought we should put the guns in his bedroom.
“Put them in my room,” I said, not needing to ask why he was suggesting it.
When my father was alive he’d given Blake and JB shotguns, had them take gun safety classes, and took them hunting.
“They’d be better off in my room,” Blake said. “I know how to use them. You don’t.”
“If anyone pumps buckshot into Dad, I don’t want it to be you. I don’t want you anywhere near this.”
It made me sick we were having this conversation.
“We only have two shells,” Blake said. “The guns are unloaded. I’ll keep the guns in my room, you keep the shells. Okay?”
The expression on Kent’s face grew increasingly alarmed as I shared this conversation.
“You need to change the locks,” Kent said.
Matt told me to change the locks, so had my attorney. She told me that if I wanted to change them, I should do it before I got in front of a judge who’d tell me I couldn’t. I hadn’t changed the locks because I didn’t want to push JB over the edge. But I was rattled enough to change them now.