Protecting Abigail

by R. R. Banks

  "Is something wrong?" I ask.

  "You looked so peaceful, I wanted to let you get your sleep, but that was as long as I could let you. You need to get up and get ready."

  His raven black hair is ruffled, and his mint green eyes are bloodshot and tired. It looks like he didn’t sleep at all last night.

  "Get ready?" I ask. "Am I going somewhere?"

  "No," he says. "But the police are coming here."

  "The police?" I ask, my voice rising sharply. "What do you mean, the police are coming here?"

  "You have to talk to them about Trevor, Abigail."

  "I don't want to," I say. "How could you call the police without asking me first? This is my fight."

  "Really? Is that why you called me to come and get you from the hotel? Is that why you passed out on my couch and slept for almost a day while I stayed up and watched to make sure you were OK? I couldn't take it anymore. You need to tell the police what's been going on. You should have years ago. So, I called them, and they'll be here in an hour. I thought that would give you time to get ready, compose your thoughts, and have some breakfast before you have to talk about all this.”

  My body is stiff from sleeping in a curled position on the couch for so long, but I don't realize how tight the muscles in my upper back are until I step under the steaming hot water. The massage shower head in the bathroom off the guest room pounds down on me, easing the tension in my neck and shoulders. I stay in as long as I feel I can get away with and dress as quickly as I can. Even a few seconds of being naked makes me feel exposed and vulnerable. Not bothering with makeup, I sweep my wet hair up into a ponytail. My hair is the same raven color as Evan’s, making the resemblance between us startling.

  Feeling as put together as possible, I walk out into the living room. Evan holds a soup bowl-sized cup of coffee out toward me, and I accept it happily. My hands wrap around it, and I breathe in the rich scent before taking a long sip. It’s barely all the way down my throat before the doorbell rings. A sense of dread settles over me as I walk over to the couch and sit as Evan goes to let the officers in. I can hear them walk through the front room before stepping into the living room with me.

  "Miss Dixon?"

  An officer with salt and pepper hair and the softened body of a man who used to be extremely athletic but lost all definition over the years, stands in front of me, his thumbs tucked in his belt loops. It's a glimpse into a sitcom cliché, and I feel even less confident now that he’s standing in front of me.

  "Yes."

  "I'm Officer Campanelli. I hear you have a story to tell."

  Well, that's a fantastic start to this conversation.

  "My brother is the one who called," I say.

  Officer Campanelli glanced over at Evan.

  "And why is that?"

  "Because I think she needs to talk to you about what's been happening between her and her boyfriend."

  "Ex-boyfriend," I emphasize.

  "Why is that?" the officer asks.

  "Tell him," Evan says. I remain quiet for a few seconds, and my brother takes a step toward me. "Abigail, tell him."

  The other officer, a younger woman with her raven hair pulled back in a severe bun and dark-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, comes toward me and sits on the sofa beside me.

  "If something's happening, you need to talk about it," she says.

  I feel like I'm in the middle of a demonstration of the good-cop, bad-cop technique, but I'm not sure what I did to deserve it.

  I'm not sure what I should say to her. I’m embarrassed just thinking about talking about it.

  "If you are not going to tell them, then I will," Evan says.

  He doesn't even give me a chance to answer before he lets out an exasperated sigh and launches into a description of my relationship with Trevor. Hearing the words falling around me makes my skin crawl, and I cringe. I don't want to hear this. These are incidents and issues that already exist as bitter memories in my mind. Hearing them makes me feel even more exposed and vulnerable than before. Finally, Evan is done, and I look over at the two officers. They exchange glances, and the officer beside me, who never told me her name, stands and steps back up to Officer Campanelli.

  "Do you have any evidence of any of this?" she asks.

  "Evidence?" I ask. "Like what?"

  "Police reports, hospital records, photographs? Anything that will corroborate the story your brother just told."

  There's that word again. Story. It's said exactly as it sounds, like they are convinced I've concocted all of this in my mind. It's obvious in their eyes that they aren't putting much stock into what they've heard, and my feelings of isolation intensify.

  "No," I say. "I don't have any of those things."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I never called the police," I say. "I never thought it was necessary. Trevor didn't do anything I thought would be illegal, or that would matter to anybody but me. He didn't lock me in the house or tell me I couldn't leave, not until a few days ago. I don't have hospital records because up until now, he had never really hurt me. I never had anything to take pictures of."

  "So, there's nothing that backs up what you're telling us?" Officer Campanelli says.

  The dismissal in his voice is obvious, and I feel my jaw set tightly as my breath catches in my chest.

  "It never occurred to me I would have to have records to justify that I'm telling the truth," I say through gritted teeth.

  "Don't get so defensive," he says. "You have to understand, a lot of women get upset when their boyfriends or husbands break up with them, and they exaggerate stories, or make things up to try to get back at them, not really understanding how much trouble they could be causing. Remember, there's nothing illegal about somebody going to the grocery store at the same time you do."

  I see the female officer roll her eyes. I get the impression she's used to hearing such offensive drivel come out of her partner's mouth. It's less than reassuring.

  "The security guard," Evan says.

  "Security guard?" Campanelli asks.

  "When Trevor attacked her at the hotel yesterday, a security guard helped her. He was waiting for me when I arrived. He knows what happened. I'm sure if you get in touch with him, he'll back Abigail up."

  "How much did he see?"

  "I don't know," I answer. "I had gotten away from Trevor by the time I realized the security guard was there. He knew something was going on from a complaint by another guest of the hotel."

  "So, you don't know if he actually saw anything?"

  "He saw me running. He heard Trevor yelling at me."

  "Frankly, miss, I don't know how much we're going to be able to help you."

  "What?" Evan snapped.

  "Without any real corroboration other than the word of a security guard, there's little we can do."

  The female officer holds up a hand slightly as if to keep me from overreacting.

  "That's not entirely true. Though you don't have a tremendous amount of evidence, if you are serious about pursuing this, you can press charges. We can go out and take him into custody."

  "What happens after that?" I ask.

  "If the judge believes there's enough to move forward, the case will go to trial."

  Just the thought of going through a trial causes a sharp pain to tear through my temple. The last thing I want right now is to have to sit in a room and tell a crowd of strangers everything that happened between us, all while facing Trevor. It's not something I can even consider at this point. It’s far too complicated and involved, especially if all it will do is cause me more pain. I’d rather just put it all behind me.

  "Then we do that," Evan says. “How do we – “

  "No," I interrupt.

  "What do you mean 'no'?" Evan asks incredulously. "You can't just let him get away with it."

  "Evan, you heard them. There's not much they can do. I don't want to go through the hassle of having him arrested. I'm not letting him get away with it. I'm letting mys
elf get on with my life."

  Chapter Three

  Xavier

  "Did you have a good day at work?"

  I look toward the kitchen door where Ruth has appeared, carrying a plate of food left over from the dinner she served hours ago. The familiar sinking sensation inside causes me to briefly hesitate before answering her. It's been four years, but every day, when I walk back in the door from work, and I hear Ruth talking to me, my mind wants her voice to be Helen’s – my late wife. I still struggle with what to say to my private chef.

  "It was fine, thank you," I finally respond.

  Ruth has been working for me long enough that she likely knows what's going through my thoughts, but she doesn't say anything. Unlike everyone else in my life, Ruth isn’t intimidated by me. She doesn't hesitate to tell me exactly what she's thinking, or attempt to bring me back into the reality the rest of the world lives in – something I’ve often felt disconnected from since the night Helen died. Once she was no longer a part of this world, I wasn't either. It feels like she took my sense of reality right along with her. There's a part of me that wonders if I'll ever be able to move past this.

  Ruth walks toward my office, following the same path we've walked countless times over the years. As much as she hates it, she leaves my dinner plate in the center of my desk, so I can eat it while I finish up any lingering projects from work that day. The longer time goes on since I last told Helen about my day over a plate of hot, just made food, it seems like I have far more leftover suppers and leftover work. The longer the void stretches, the more I try to fill it with meaningless projects and routine, giving myself little time to let my thoughts wander.

  Once I step into the office, I take off my jacket and hang it on the coat rack in one corner. Rolling my sleeves to my elbows, I pause beside my chair.

  "Is she still awake?"

  I know Ruth's answer. The time slipped away from me at the office, and it’s late. There's no way Anna is still awake by now, but I still feel the compulsion to ask. I can't sit down at this godforsaken desk and keep working until I know she's fast asleep. On the rare night I make it home before her bedtime, I have the opportunity to lose myself in a different, more meaningful way. When I'm with Anna, the painful thoughts don’t come in as much.

  "No," Ruth says, shaking her head. "She went to bed about three hours ago."

  I nod, sitting down in my black leather desk chair. Ruth places the plate in front of me, and I breathe in the mouthwatering smell of roast chicken. Even though it was cooled and warmed up again, it looks delicious. Looking up at her, I offer what I hope comes across as a smile. She looks back at me with a kind understanding reflected in her pale blue eyes. I remember when I was a child and she worked in my father's home. Since then, her once-vibrant red hair has faded to a shimmering rose gold, and her voice has deepened slightly as if time has smoothed away the rougher edges from her younger years. I remind myself this is how she will look in Anna's memories.

  "Is there anything else I can get for you?" she asks. "There’s blueberry cake for dessert."

  "No, thank you, though, Ruth."

  "I'll be going to bed, then."

  "Thank you for watching her."

  "Of course. Don't stay up too late."

  "I won't. I'm just going to finish up a few things, then I'll head to bed."

  Ruth nods.

  "The blueberry cake is on the counter if you change your mind."

  I pull a stack of papers out of my briefcase, arranging them to either side of my plate, and open my computer. I eat absently as I work, and before I realize it, I’ve cleared the plate. The words on the contracts are blurring in front of my eyes, and I know I've reached the point where I can no longer avoid sleep. Bringing my dish into the kitchen, I rinse it and set it in the dishwasher. I can't resist cutting a small sliver of blueberry cake as I walk past, knowing full well Ruth would be appalled to see me eating it with my fingers and no plate.

  I turn off the rest of the lights as I walk toward the spiral staircase that leads up to my bedroom. When I reach the top, I walk forward, pushing the slightly open door to one side, and step in. The ruffled white canopy bed casts a shadow over the small figure resting beneath. She looks so tiny curled up in the middle of the gigantic mattress. I walk up to the side of the bed and look down at Anna. At four years old, she looks more like her mother than ever. Not wanting to wake her, I resist the urge to touch her soft cheek. She still seems to sense my presence, however, and lets out a coo as she stretches out, rolling onto her back. Her little eyes flicker partially open, and she offers me a sweet smile.

  "Hi, Daddy," she says in a voice slowed by sleepiness.

  "Hi, sweetheart," I murmur. "Go on back to sleep now."

  I lean down to kiss her forehead and turn to the door.

  "Story?" Anna says.

  I'm exhausted, but I can't resist her angelic little voice. I nod and walk back. Picking up a book from a white nightstand beside the bed, I settle onto the mattress beside her.

  "Where were we?" I ask.

  "She just got to the magical fairyland," she says.

  I slide my finger over the bookmark she made and open the book.

  "Yes, she did," I say.

  Almost as soon as I start to read, her eyes begin to flutter. I read until her breathing is slow and even, before carefully closing the book and setting it back in its place. I leave the door cracked so Anna won't wake up in total darkness if she wakes again before morning, and run to my room. I walk into my master suite the same way I do most nights. My first few steps into the room, I find myself wanting to tell Helen that our daughter is amazing. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but at least I don't say them out loud tonight. Drawing my tie out of my shirt collar, I drape it across the back of a chair, so I'll remember to send it to the cleaners later. Soon I've shed my clothes, and the pressures of the day, and finally drift off to sleep.

  ********

  Abigail

  "This is absolutely absurd."

  "What is it?" Evan asks, coming into the room.

  "This," I say, pointing at the screen.

  Evan leans down to look at what I'm reading.

  "Are you kidding me?" he asks. "Is this real?"

  "Of course, it's real. Trevor fucking reported me missing." I let out an angry sigh, and gesture toward the screen. "And he used that picture. Why would he use that picture?"

  An image of me from the year I left home with him taunts me from the center of the missing announcement. I’m bent over the edge of a pool in a tiny string bikini at a Memorial Day cookout. And it’s posted on every single social media feed of our local police department. Even though I asked, I know exactly why Trevor chose that picture to use on the missing person report. He wanted to humiliate me. Create an artificial image of me so those who might see it will automatically assume what type of person I am. This way, he can embarrass me, make people take the situation less seriously, and also portray himself as a loving, caring boyfriend.

  "I don't get it," Evan says. "Why would he report you missing? How did you even find out about this?"

  "Lilith," I say. "I called her this morning to let her know I'm doing okay, and not to worry. She was terrified because she saw the report."

  "Another example of why you need to have a cell phone," he says.

  "Yes, I understand. I need a way to stay in touch with people. But that's not going to help me right this second. What if those officers who were here yesterday recognize me, and tell Trevor where I am?"

  "They know what's been going on between the two of you, and that you were considering having him arrested. I sincerely doubt they would hand you over like that."

  "I don't know. That Campanelli guy didn't seem too convinced that anything was actually wrong. From the way he was talking, he seemed convinced I was some simpering, hysterical woman throwing a temper tantrum to try and get attention. I can absolutely see him slipping Trevor some information about where I am, so he could come straighten me
out."

  Evan doesn't argue. The stiff expression on his face tells me he agrees.

  "You're going to have to call the station," he says. "Call the number on the missing poster and tell them you're fine. Let them know the situation, and that you don't want any contact with Trevor, or for him to be told anything about you or where you are. Make sure they understand you aren't married, and that he has no right to be doing this."

  I know he's right. I can't risk the police telling Trevor where I am.

  Taking the phone Evan holds out to me, I dial the number listed on the announcement. After a tense, complicated conversation during which I’m tossed from person to person, and questioned about the post as if I had made it myself, I end the call and drop the phone on the couch.

  "What did they say?" Evan asks.

  "Well, some of them thought I was mentally ill and lying about my identity. Another officer or two thought I was either playing a horrible joke by taking the poor, defenseless, 'real' Abigail off the missing lists, or that I had done something to the 'real' Abigail and was trying to cover it up by saying she was no longer missing. A couple didn't know what I was talking about at all. Finally, I got a female officer who understood the situation enough that she was able to take down the notice and put notes in my file to not discuss anything with Trevor other than the fact that I’m not missing. Apparently, they aren't supposed to release any personal information about an adult to anyone, especially not someone not in the immediate family."

  "That's good to hear," Evan says.

  "Why are you so optimistic all of a sudden?" I ask. "At this point, three-quarters of the state has seen me about to fall into a pool with the tiniest piece of fabric, a couple hundred sequins, and some hope, to cover my ass."

  "But they're taking it down, so the other quarter of the state won't have the opportunity to. That's a plus. Besides, I've been thinking about what you said. You might not want to go through the mess of having Trevor arrested, but that doesn't mean you're just pretending nothing happened."