They check me out. I’ll be sore tomorrow, but I’m okay. I’m fine. My wrist has a mild sprain. My pinky toe feels broken, but that's just sprained too. My knee’s just bruised. The nurses wrap my wrist up and there’s paperwork. Fucking paperwork, like I can think about that right now. The cops aren't done talking to me yet. I ask them to call Scott. I wait. I wait. The woman across from me won’t stop crying, and a nurse draws the curtain around my bed to give me some privacy. I want to tell her to get a fucking grip. She’s fine. It’s her kid who should be crying. I should be crying, but I can’t. My brain won’t slow down even to let me cry.
At some point the curtain flies open and there’s Scott. He’s still wearing the clothes he had on earlier at the bar even though it’s almost two a.m. Clearly they didn’t wake him up. He comes close to the bed. He towers over me. He’s six-six or something crazy like that, and the only guy in my firm who isn’t somewhat of a creep. And the only guy in the firm who doesn’t have some sort of complex about how tall I am. We’re both brown so we stick together. I look at him, trying to figure out what’s going on inside of my chest.
“Liz. Shit. What the fuck happened?” he says.
I tell him.
“Dorrit?” he asks when I’m finished. “David Dorrit had someone do this to you?”
“Yeah.” My voice doesn’t waver, but I feel some tears leak out of my eyes. I wipe my face with the side of my knuckle. My hand comes away dry. I wipe my face again and now I’ve just smudged my makeup. Maybe there aren’t any tears.
“That fucking guy. What the fuck—” He stops as one of the cops escorts a man over to my bed. Sweat beads along his forehead. The summer heat.
“Miss Lewis?” the man says.
“Yes,” I say.
“I’m Detective Cohill. Just wanted to ask you a few questions. Get a clear picture of what happened in your apartment.”
“Okay.”
“Tell me about your night.” he says.
“She was out having drinks with me.”
The detective and I both look at Scott.
“Is this your boyfriend?” he asks, glancing at both our hands. He’s looking for rings.
“No. He's my friend and coworker.”
“Friend and coworker, do you mind giving us a minute?”
“I'm also her lawyer,” Scott says.
I let out a sigh. My chest hurts. I’m freezing. “He is a lawyer. I’d like him to stay,” I say even though I’m not sure if that’s how I feel. My brain is split in two. One side is protecting me, or hiding. The other side is doing the thinking for the rest of me. Scott stays.
“Well I'm not arresting you right this second,” Detective Cohill says. “So if your lawyer could let you tell me what happened that would be great.”
I look up at Scott through my eyelashes. I know he's worried, but I know what the fuck happened. I can handle this.
“David Dorrit Jr. tried to have me killed. He sent that man to kill me.”
“David Dorrit Jr.? As in the Dorrits?” He doesn't believe me.
I sit straighter and smooth my hair behind my ear. “Yes.”
“And how do you know this?”
Because I’m not a fucking liar.
“I handled a case for him several months ago and he wasn't pleased with my work. The man in my apartment said David Dorrit Jr. sent him to put me to sleep with his hands. He told him to take his time killing me.”
In a previous life, I did sex work, worked as a professional dominatrix. The women I learned from taught me all their tricks, the rules and precautions to take in the trade. They told me how to avoid and if I had to, deal with violent client and law enforcement. When I left the business to practice law for good, I never thought I’d have to take those lessons with me. I never thought they’d apply when dealing with clients through Murrell, Dunne, Walmax and Wright. Foolish of me.
“Well, I guess he didn't study his mark. The way you're built,” Detective Cohill says to my face as if women like me should take the fact that I was successful in fighting for my life just because I’m tall and thick boned as a compliment. That feeling in my chest moves up to my throat.
“Do you know how he got into your apartment? Didn't see any signs of forced entry.”
“I don't know,” I tell him. “He was just in there. I didn't look around before I called 9-1-1.”
“You didn’t lose any keys recently? Forget to change your locks?” Cohill asks.
“I haven’t lost a set of keys since I was nine years old. I don’t know how he got in.”
“Well we’ll see if we can get any footage from the security cameras.” He takes down my cell and my work numbers. He thanks me, then slides his pad and pen back into the pocket of his jacket. Apparently we’re done here.
“What now?” Scott asks the question on the tip of my tongue.
“We’ll let you know when we have some more information. You have some place to spend the night? Maybe with your lawyer friend here? I don’t think the techs will be done until tomorrow afternoon.”
“Uh, you can crash with me,” Scott offers. I don’t respond, but that sounds good enough for Detective Cohill.
“I’ll be in touch,” he says with a final nod. Then he turns and heads for the exit.
“Hold on. Wait,” I say as I hop off the hospital bed. My ankle burns, and I ignore it. “Someone hired him to kill me. Are you going to look into that?”
Cohill looks over his shoulder. He hesitates a moment. Licks his lips. Looks at Scott in that way men look at each other when they think a woman is being hysterical. “Uh, well…” He steps back toward my bed. “We will definitely look into it, but right now it looks like you’re pretty lucky.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say.
“By your account, someone broke into your place and you defended yourself.”
“By your account. Right. So open and shut case.” Scott says as he lets out his own loud sigh and runs his hands through his slick black hair. “You know that’s bullshit right? I mean at least pretend you believe her. We all know what the Dorrits are like. You can’t say Dorrit Jr. is above any of this.”
Cohill shrugs while simultaneously nodding in agreement. “Like, I said. We’re gonna do our best to get to the bottom of this. Get some rest. And we’ll be in touch. We’ll probably have you in to talk to the D.A. pretty soon. You’ll hear from us.” He’s done then. He turns and walks away for good.
“Can you believe that fucking guy?” Scott says as Cohill pushes through the exit’s double doors.
“Shockingly, I can.”
“Let me go see if I can get you out of here. You don’t have to crash at my place. I just wanted to get him off your back.”
I blink, then look up at Scott. I try to at least. My eyes aren’t focusing on his face.“I want to crash at your place.” I say. “If you don’t mind. He—this dude bled out on my floor.”
“Fuck,” Scott breathes and then he steps in front of me. I do my best not to shrug him off as he puts both his hands on my shoulders. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I say. I think of my best friend. I think of Claudia and her near brush with death. How she escaped not one, but two deranged serial killers nearly two years ago. I think of how I tried to sympathize with her. I know about survivor's guilt. I know what it’s like to bury a loved one or two. This is something else. I scan Scott’s face. He doesn’t understand, he can’t understand for a whole host of reasons, but I think he genuinely cares.
He gives my shoulders a firm squeeze. “I’ll be right back.”
He finds the right nurse. I sign some more papers. Thank God for my quality insurance. We walk out those same double doors into the still boiling hot night. I’m still shivering when our cab pulls up.
Two
I sleep fitfully on Scott’s couch in one of his Harvard law shirts and a pair of his oversized shorts. He offers me his bed, but I don’t want it. Some part of me feels like I’m not ready for that kind of comfort. I’
m in the middle of something. Something that’s just started. I’ll get the rest I really need when this is all over. If it’s ever over. I do want to sleep, but every time I close my eyes a burst of adrenaline wakes me up. My fight or flight response has been activated and I can’t turn it off. No nightmares, just a feeling. A sick, sick feeling of tripping and falling.
I can still feel him attacking me. I still feel like I’m fighting for my life. And every time I wake up and I manage to calm my breathing and my pounding heart, my hand is clenched in the worst fist. My nails are digging into my palm. Eventually my body forces itself to shut down. Still, I don’t sleep well at all and when I do eventually wake up a little while after sunrise, my whole body is sore.
When Scott wakes up he offers to go back to my place with me. I want to tell him no, but the part of my brain that’s in control tells him yes. I need to see if I can at least get back into my apartment to get a few things like my laptop. I wait for him to get dressed and he snags us a cab. I look at my phone as we drive uptown. Scott’s on the phone with a client, talking loud enough that our driver keeps looking at him in the mirror. I look at all the alerts I’ve been ignoring. Messages and texts from the girls. A voicemail from my landlord, Mrs. Watt. More texts and chats from Brookie.
I hate lying to my sister, but I know her. I know what Brooklyn will do. I’m afraid to tell her the truth. She and I are two sides of the same coin. The same fiercely protective coin. We’ll do anything for each other. We’ll do anything for our friends. But where I’m cautious and calculating, Brooklyn is fearless. Sometime I envy that fearlessness. She looks, sometimes, but she always leaps. The joys of being the youngest. I hate lying to her, but I can’t tell her the truth when I finally look at her messages that are waiting for me. I’m not sure that I’m not still in danger and I know Brook. She’ll put herself in harm’s way just because she’s my sister. I know I can’t let that happen.
My thumb moves over my screen and I open our group chat. The girls encourage Rayna to see her ex if she thinks it’s a good idea and if she isn’t at risk of doing something like catching feelings for him when she should just be using him as a dick appointment to stave off the loneliness. We can all relate to the loneliness. They ask where I went. Noa suggests I probably fell asleep. They move onto other things. Work, TV, more about men. The conversation winds down to Noa and Rayna talking about an article they both read in the Post. This is normal. This is how the conversation is supposed to go. I should have been there having this conversation with them. There should not have been a man in my apartment.
I look at the time stamps. Brook is the first to chime in this morning.
Brookie: Hot guy at my coffee spot.
Wanna grab his butt.
Lizzie come get me if they lock me up.
There are more alerts. I click over to the chat that I share with just my sister. My fingers hesitate. I want to tell her what happened. I want to tell her everything. But I’m not ready. Brook is something different to me. A safe space. I don’t want to let this thing enter that space. I don’t want to ruin this peace that took us years to claw our way back to. I know exactly what she’ll think. I know she’ll wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t fought back the way I did. She’ll wonder what would have happened if she lost me too. I start to type.
Don’t grab any butts.
I already spent your bail money.
Brookie: Hey fool.
Where’d you go last night?
I want to protect her in every sense. I can’t bring myself to tell her yet.
Work stuff and then I passed out.
Catching up on chats now.
Brookie: Cool cool.
I’m at the courthouse.
I’ll text you when I win this bitch.
I laugh and try not to wince at the soreness in my ribs where the man slammed me against the counter.
Gonna win it during
opening arguments, are you?
Brookie: Ah duh.
You’ve seen me work.
Brooklyn Out.
I turn my phone over and slide my hands into my lap. I glance over at Scott and he flashes me a tight smile before he goes back to his call.
Mrs. Ridner, the president of our building association, is standing outside talking to a cop when Scott and I pull up. I hop out of the cab and my stomach clenches at the heat.The temperature feels like it’s already risen ten degrees during the drive. It’s gonna be another miserably hot day. I know it.
“Elizabeth!” she says as soon as she sees me. The cop takes that as his cue to run away from her and back into the building. I understand. The woman does not take hints. “Oh girl, I am so glad you’re okay.”
“Yeah I’m fine,” I say as she ignores my bandaged wrist, grabs both of my hands and almost makes me drop my phone. “I just wanted to get some of my things.”
“Uh, I don’t know if that’s gonna work, honey,” she says.
“Wha—”
“They are still waiting for the crime scene technicians to show up. They need to ‘process’ the scene,” she says with finger quotes, like the cops are actually up in my apartment playing cards.
I look up at the building’s facade, even though my place faces the other side. “Is he still up—”
“Oh no. They took care of that. I saw them haul the body bag out of here a little while ago. I was so worried it was you, but I asked the officer and he said it was a male,” she says all in one breath. I look up again as a different officer comes out the door.
“Excuse me,” I say, pulling myself away from Mrs. Ridner. I start up the stairs and step in front of the cop before he can get by.
“There’s no information I can share with you at the moment ma’am,” the cop says before I can get a word out.
“It’s my apartment,” I say with a little force. “I just wanted to grab some of my things.”
His eyes open wide for a second and I wonder what he’s seen. I wonder if it’s as bad as I remember it. “Oh yeah, no, we can’t let you in, but someone will contact you as soon as they finish up,” he says and then his face pinches a bit into a frown. He’s still staring at me.
“Don’t worry, honey. It won’t take too long,” Mrs. Ridner says behind me. “You want to come on inside to my place? I’ll make up some coffee.”
“No, I…” I don’t finish my thought. I can’t think. I don’t realize I’m still staring at the officer or that my mouth is partially open until I feels Scott’s hand on my shoulder. I look up at him. He’s standing beside me on the steps.
“I have to get to the office,” he says. “What you do need?”
I don’t know, I almost say, but that’s not true. I need to let the police do their job, even if they are terrible and slow. I need to get some clothes and go to work. I have work. I have plenty of work. Plenty of shit to do. And surely David Dorrit Jr. won’t send a backup hit man to my office in broad daylight. The office. The office is a good idea. I won’t be alone at the office.
“Nothing, nothing,” I say, shaking my head and letting out a deep breath. I straighten my shoulders and ignore the pain in my ribs. Get it together, Lewis. “I’ll um—I’ll just head toward the office. There’s a Kleinman’s up the block. I’ll grab something to wear and head into work.”
“Cool. You want a lift?” he says as he backs toward the street. I look up the block and glance at the yellow cab waiting up at the light. Scott never takes the subway.
“Sure,” I say. We’ve only been on the street a few minutes and I’ve already started sweating. The cab driver will have the air on. Taking a cab to the office is a great idea.
Kleinman’s isn’t open yet, but I turn down Scott’s offer to escort me to the Starbucks on the corner. He’s done enough in the last twelve hours. The streets are full and busy and I don’t know what’s worse, being alone or feeling like there’s someone else in this throng of people looking for me, waiting to finish the job. I get in line and order a latte and then wait for a ma
n to finish his newspaper so I can take his empty seat.
When I sit, I realize I have to tell someone about this. Someone who isn’t a cop or a nurse. Or Scott. I have to tell one of my friends to release some of this pressure. I text Rayna. I know she’s up. Her grandma is an early riser.
I have to tell you something,
but I don’t want you to freak out.
I’m okay.
I see those three little bubbles pop up.
Okay, go.
Someone broke into my apartment
last night and attacked me.
I killed him.
OMG Liz.
Sorry. I’m not freaking out.
Are you okay?
I mean I know you’re not okay
But are you okay?
That’s some self defense done right.
Shit, girl.
Yeah. I’m fine.
I’m pretty sure I’m still in shock.
What can I do?
How can I help?
Nothing. I’m okay.
I just needed to tell someone
who isn’t Brook.
She doesn’t know?
No. I don’t want to tell her.
SANCTUARY: Beards & Bondage Page 2