Matters of the Hart (The Hart Series Book 3)

by M. E. Carter

I am a logical person. Logically, I know there is nothing I could have done differently. Logically, I know there was no way I could have anticipated what I was going to stumble across tonight. But when it comes to something like this, logic is blown out the window, and all I know is how it feels. And I feel guilty. I feel angry. I feel like I failed her. I feel like I should have done something different.

  So now I wait. Wait for news that she’s okay. Wait for news that someone is here for her. Wait for someone to protect her.

  “Mr. Hart?”

  I blink the fogginess out of my eyes and look at the officer next to me.

  “Uh, yeah, that’s me. Jaxon.”

  “I’m Officer Aguilar.” He’s short and stocky, dark hair and eyes. He’s standing with his hands on his utility belt in the typical police officer stance. I tower over him when I rise to shake his hand, and I’m not what you would consider tall. “I just wanted to let you know the girl is awake, and it looks like she’s going to be fine.”

  My eyes widen. “She’s awake?” For the first time tonight, a niggle of excitement runs through me. “She’s okay?”

  “Well,” he pauses briefly. “I wouldn’t necessarily say she’s okay. But she’s awake, and her injuries don’t appear to be life threatening. She’s got a long haul, but physically she’s going to be fine.”

  Physically. There is so much implication in that one word, and I understand his meaning. Physically, she’ll be fine. Mentally and emotionally—that is all still to be determined.

  “I can’t give you any more information than that,” he says almost apologetically, “But I wanted to find out if you remembered anything else. Maybe what the guy looked like or even what he was wearing.”

  I try to think back again, but the memories are still fuzzy.

  Shaking my head, I’m pissed at myself for not knowing more. “I told the other officer everything I could remember.”

  “Well, sometimes memories hit us out of nowhere, and since you’ve been sitting here I thought I’d ask. Just to make sure we didn’t miss anything before you head home.”

  “Yeah, I get it. Really, just like I told the detective, it was dark out and happened fast. All I remember is that asshole had kind of longish hair on the top. I think it was blond, but I’m just not sure. Now I wish I would have ripped some of it out of his head.”

  Officer Aguilar nods as he listens, but I can see him assessing my mental state.

  “Sorry.” I look at the floor. “I have a sister. Shit like this makes me rage.”

  “More men should feel that way about women being assaulted. It’d be nice to be out of a job.” He adjusts his stance before saying, “Well, if you have any other memories, make sure to let us know. These things take time, and sometimes once the brain isn’t pumped full of adrenaline, things come to you.”

  I nod again like I understand it’s only a matter of time. Part of me hopes he’s right—that maybe I can give them another lead. And part of me hopes I never remember this night again.

  Just as Office Aguilar opens his mouth to continue the conversation, the automatic sliding doors open and a familiar face comes racing through. Almost immediately, he sees me.

  “Jax!” my dad yells and jogs to me, pulling me into his arms and holding me tight. “Jax, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, Dad. I’m okay,” I whisper, my whole body relaxing. It doesn’t matter that we got into a fight earlier. We’ll deal with that later. For now, having him here means I don’t have to do this by myself. “I’m okay. But it was bad. It was so bad.”

  “I know, son. I know.”

  He keeps holding me and suddenly, emotions I didn’t know were there take over.

  “Dad, I tried to stop him,” I sob. “But I let him get away.”

  “No, Jax. No. You helped save her. You did what was necessary, and I’m proud of you.”

  He holds me for a few more minutes while I collect myself. Then he backs away and looks me over. I know he’s giving me the once-over, making sure I’m not too exhausted. I want to be angry at him for it, but there’s other things to be angry about now, so I ignore him.

  “Mr. Hart, I presume?” Officer Aguilar asks.

  My dad is obviously surprised when he realizes someone is standing with us. “Yeah, sorry.” He rubs his hand down his face. “I’m Jaxon’s dad. Jason. Nice to meet you.”

  The officer gets a strange look on his face. “Jason. Jason Hart,” he repeats absentmindedly. Then his features change as a lightbulb moment goes off in his head, and he snaps his fingers. “Hart to Heart Foundation.”

  My dad immediately switches into PR mode, a big grin crossing his face. I take a step back and let him do his thing while I wipe my eyes and rub my face. “Yeah, that’s what I’m in town for. I’m glad to hear you know of us.”

  Office Aguilar resumes his stance with his hands on his belt. “You guys are the reason I ended up on the bone marrow registry.”

  This piques both our interests. I don’t want to work for the foundation, but it’s been a huge part of my life since its inception, and I have a vested interest in whether or not it succeeds, whether I like it or not. Plus, it’s nice to focus on something besides the trauma of tonight, however briefly it might be.

  “I went and signed up ten years ago when you guys did the special event at the stadium,” the officer continues. “It was really cool that you did that.”

  Dad looks at me and grins, his eyes crinkling. “I’m glad to see that hard work was effective.”

  “Oh, it definitely was. Turns out I was a match.”

  Now, this is where I could lose my dad’s attention for hours. He loves hearing these stories—how someone who signed up through Hart to Heart ended up being a donor. There are pictures tacked all over his office of lives that have been saved due to those outreach programs. It keeps him motivated.

  “Really?” he inquires. “Did you end up donating?”

  “Sure did.” The officer’s chest puffs out slightly with pride, and I swear he seems ten feet tall now. “Twenty-eight-year-old mother of two. Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Did the transplant last year, and she got a clean bill of health a few months ago.”

  “That’s awesome man,” my dad exclaims. “I can’t even thank you enough for doing that. What a gift!”

  “We have plans to meet up in the next couple of months,” he continues. “I can’t wait to meet her. Saving her life was the most important thing I’ve ever done.”

  “I need to shake your hand,” Dad says, reaching his own out. “And please, if you think about it, take some pictures when you guys meet up and email them over to Hart to Heart. We love keeping track of when we’re doing good work. It helps keep up with our funding and really encourages us to keep doing our jobs.”

  “I will,” he says with a nod. “I’ll make it a point to email. But anyway, your boy did a great job tonight. He was a real hero.”

  My dad puts his giant paw on my shoulder and tugs me close to him again. “That’s my Jaxon. He’s been my hero for a long time.”

  I’m not sure where that statement comes from since I’ve never heard him say that before, but I choose not to react. Instead, I watch as the officer nods and begins to walk away but thinks better of it and turns back. “Don’t forget, Jaxon. If you remember anything, please don’t hesitate to give us a call.”

  “I will. Thank you, Officer.”

  As he walks away, my dad turns and hauls me into a hug again, breathing a sigh of relief. “God, Jaxon, when you said you were going to the hospital, my heart dropped.”

  And the irritation is back. I understand what he’s getting at, and I understand why, but this is not the time for him to be overbearing. I can’t carry the responsibility of reassuring him I’m healthy when my mind is spinning in all different directions right now. I have no hesitations telling him so as I pull away.

  “It’s not about me tonight, Dad. It’s about this girl.”

  “I know,” he says almost apologetically. “And I don’t mean to
downplay anything she went through. Are her parents here? Do you know?”

  I shrug and sit down on the chair, him sitting next to me, leaning forward on his elbows.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen anyone coming in looking for a girl. I’m not leaving until someone comes for her. I won’t leave her by herself.”

  “I get it, son.” He puts his arm around my shoulder. I stiffen briefly, but when he says, “I get it. And we can stay here as long as you want,” I relax into him. We have a lot to discuss, a lot to sort out, but I refuse to do it now. Tonight, we’re going to sit here and watch a rerun of some random comedy from the 70s. What the hell is this show anyway?

  The volume is muted so we can’t hear anything, which makes it seem kind of pointless to have a TV in here, and it makes it impossible to keep me engaged.

  Looking around the room, I notice what my dad’s wearing and realization hits.

  “Wait, Dad, I called you at like 10:30. What took you so long to get here? You don’t even have any real clothes on.” I poke fun at the plaid pajama pants and white T-shirt he’s wearing in public. If it weren’t for the fact that he has Nike’s on his feet, I’d think he’d just woken up when I called and rolled out of bed to get here.

  He purses his lips before fessing up. “I wasn’t exactly in town when you called.”

  My eyebrows lift just slightly. “What? Where were you? I thought you left tomorrow.”

  “I’d started the drive home last night. I didn’t have anything to do, so I figured I’d head out early. I was about halfway there when I stopped for the night.”

  “What? Dad! You didn’t need to turn around and come back! It’s not me in the hospital,” I protest.

  “Yeah, I know, I know. I called your mom as soon as you called me, and she agreed that I needed to come back for you. Jaxon, you may not have been the one who was assaulted tonight, but you got a big dose of the ugly side of life. I don’t care about our fight earlier.” I bristle at the reminder. “None of that is important. You’re important, and you need to know that I’m here for whatever you need.”

  Despite wanting to still be angry at him, I resign myself to being thankful that he’s here. I’m still mad and hurt about so many things, but right here, right now, I’m glad he’s putting everything aside to support me. “Thanks. But just know, I’m not talking about anything else with you right now. I’m here until someone shows up for the girl.”

  He puts his hand on my knee in support. “I know, son. And we’ll stay here as long as you want.”

  Leaning back in my chair, I stretch my legs out to get as comfortable as I can and turn my attentions back to the polyester suits and afros on the screen in front of me.

  Chapter Eight

  Annika

  Pippa. It’s such a strange name for a woman in the United States to have. Especially a woman in her late twenties or early thirties.

  I find myself wondering, where did her parents come up with the name Pippa? Does she have a sister named Catherine who lives in Buckingham Palace?

  I stifle back a giggle. Not really a giggle. More like a hysterical laugh. I’m trying hard to keep my mind off the click, click, click of the camera between my legs.

  I’m thinking about anything and everything to keep from hearing the murmurs of Dr. Thompson as he spouts off medical things that Stacy needs to document in my file. I’m trying desperately not to remember everything that has happened tonight, because I will be damned if I’m going to cry in front of these people again.

  There is not one square inch of my body they haven’t seen naked.

  There is not one part of my nude body that hasn’t been photographed.

  They have swabbed the inside of my cheek.

  They have gathered skin cells from underneath my fingernails.

  They have scraped my cervix.

  And now I lie here with a camera between my naked, spread legs as they take pictures of my most private areas—parts of me I don’t share with just anyone—looking for potential damage that was done by the assault.

  An assault I don’t remember. But I sure as hell will remember this.

  Yes, I have consented to everything that is happening to me right now. But that doesn’t mean I want to go through it. That doesn’t mean the reason for my consent isn’t for the sole purpose of taking this guy down someday. Because in the forefront of my mind, while I’m feeling shame and humiliation and degradation, I’m also feeling anger. And I can’t help but pray that someday God will allow this Ron guy to feel the same kind of humiliation I’m feeling now. That someday he’ll be forced to have an anal cavity search. That someday he’ll be in prison and be made someone else’s bitch and be raped over and over while dozens of people he’s never met stare at his naked body.

  I can’t help the way I feel, and I won’t apologize for it.

  Instead, I’ll think about the name Pippa.

  Does she have a sister named Catherine somewhere? Maybe she’s married to a prince.

  Were her parent’s hippies and they were trying to name her after Pippi Longstocking and got the name spelled wrong?

  Where did a name like Pippa even come from in the first place?

  “Two-centimeter laceration on the left side inner labia.”

  Dr. Thompson’s words jerk me out of my own thoughts.

  A two-centimeter laceration of my labia. Not the outer labia. The inner labia. Which means something was inside me.

  “What does that mean happened?” I croak out, praying I can refocus my thoughts on the name Pippa again, but knowing it’s a losing battle at this point.

  Stacy has been good to me. She’s been sitting here the whole time holding my hand when I’ve needed it. She’s talked me gently through some of the procedures. She’s been kind. I’m glad she’s here. And I hope I never, ever see her again. Especially when she humors me and answers my question.

  “It could mean a whole lot of things. It could be as simple as nicking yourself with your fingernail while wiping.”

  I look down at my fingernails. My fingernails that they had a hard time scraping because they’re so short. Fingernails that I keep super short because I don’t like the way they feel when they get too long. I hate that feeling so much, I religiously clip them at least once a week.

  I know there is no way I cut myself wiping. She knows there’s no way I cut myself. Everyone in this room knows there is no way I cut myself. Which means the only way it happened was because this Ron guy was inside me.

  Was it his penis? Was it his finger? Was it an object?

  I don’t have any way of knowing.

  Do they have any way of knowing? I have no idea. I don’t even know if I care. All I know is that another wave of disgust flows through me as the realization hits that he was inside. me.

  Pippa. Pippa. Pippa. Maybe her parents were drunk.

  Pippa. Pippa. Pippa. Maybe she was an old British nanny Pippa’s mom had years ago.

  Pippa. Pippa. Pippa.

  “Okay, you can sit up now. We’re done.”

  Stacy quickly covers my lower half with a sheet as Dr. Thompson moves the camera out of the way.

  They’ve promised me that these pictures go straight into an evidence locker and no one will ever see them unless absolutely necessary, but I know how that goes. Any detective who works on this case, and detectives rotate frequently, will have access to my records. They’ll have access to naked pictures of me. Sure, they’ll be looking at them as evidence, but will they? Will they always? Will some weird, depraved power-hungry cop be the one to take over my case? Will he look at the naked pictures of my body just for fun? Will I ever know if someone who has been on this case is walking down the street, sees me, recognizes me, and knows what I look like underneath my clothes? Will a jury see them? Hundreds of people may see these pictures of me. But they try to reassure me by saying it’s “evidence” that’s going to be “safely stored” in a locker.

  I don’t believe it for a second. I pray that somehow, some w
ay, these pictures are treated with respect. That I’m treated with respect, because I won’t ever know every single person who will see these pictures. I can never know. And that fuels my anger even more.

  “Can I please use the bathroom now?” I ask, not sure who exactly I’m asking while I wait for them to finally be done inflicting this nightmare on me.

  “Absolutely,” Stacy answers and moves closer to my side.

  “I put some clean scrubs on the counter in the bathroom,” Pippa interjects. “You’re welcome to use them. And if you’d like to shower, you can.”

  I nod, but there is no way I’m showering in this strange place. No way I am taking my clothes off with these people in this room again. Never.

  Stacy tucks the paper sheet around my hips and helps me climb off the bed. I’m still a little weak and groggy from the drug so it takes a second. But then I plod off to the bathroom, determined to do it by myself. And maybe even more determined to be alone for a few minutes.

  Once the door is closed behind me, I get my first good look in the mirror and see my face.

  Damn. I look like I had a really, really rough night. My eye makeup is smeared like I’ve been ugly crying, and my hair looks like I stuck it in a blender. My body is dirty.

  I try to use my fingers to comb through my hair to put it into a messy bun, but I get caught on… what is that? Is that a stick? In my hair?

  I start pulling random bits of debris out of my knotted locks. I have no idea what this stuff is or where it even came from. It’s disgusting. I can’t wait to get back to the dorm to clean this filth off of me.

  Finally, my hair is on top of my head and out of my face. Maybe instead of washing it, I’ll just head to a salon and get it cut or colored. Maybe I’ll get a blonde pixie cut. Something that’s totally different. Something that makes me unrecognizable to the people who are going to see my naked pictures.

  I pull the hospital gown off me so I can get dressed and take a quick assessment of my body. My hips and chest look okay. My breasts look okay, my stomach…

  I run my hand through the curls of my pubic hair and… Oh god. What is that? Is that liquid? What the hell?