Dillon might not love me when he learns the truth. I shake my head and look out the window. I can’t even process that. I’ve been running from this long enough. I have to do this for me, for Renae. I have to. I can’t turn back now.
Chapter Twenty-Six—What Justice Will Feel Like
Sitting at the table in Dillon’s interim kitchen eating the eggs he’s made, I realize I’m starving—and tired. Oh my goodness. We haven’t slept a wink. In fact, I’m hoping I can take a nap. My muscles are sore. My body is singing with overuse—but in a good way.
“What are you smiling at?” he asks.
“I didn’t realize I was,” I say, looking up at him through my lashes.
“You are,” he says, as he takes a bite. “You’re beaming.”
“You didn’t lie,” I say, “when you said every surface in the house, you really meant it.”
He just tilts his head down and smiles a mischievous grin, reaching across the table to touch my hand. His touch, even now, even after we’ve enjoyed each other for hours, ignites me again.
“No, I need to eat,” I say, with a giggle as I take my hand away from his in an exaggerated gesture. “You’re insatiable, Dr. McGraw.”
He nods and sits back in his chair. The muscles on his chest flex, his stomach ripples. “I’ll never get my fill,” he says, making my stomach clench and my heart quicken. I take a bite. I need sustenance.
There’s no part of my body that he hasn’t explored, memorized with his hands, his tongue, his lips. I can still feel him. Everywhere he’s touched is tingling.
My brain is filled with images, memories of last night and this morning. The way his hands cupped under me as he pressed my back into the warmed tiles in the shower. How the steam billowed up all around us mirroring the way it felt deep inside my skin. I just wanted to feel him again, before he finds out the truth. To block the world out for a night. So it was only him and it was only me.
The feeling as I arched my back, lifted up to meet him from the wooden floor in our room. The sensation of the smooth, cool wall in the hallway as I leaned into it while he lifted my thighs to his in the dim light.
It all started in the tub after we came home last night when our bodies began to speak to each other on their own frequency. I was looking at him, my chin immersed in bubbles as he took my hand in his and brought me to him, easing our need to be one after our argument in the car. Then the we moved out to the couch in our room. Oh, and the stairs. The stairs were fun.
I blush when I think of the look in his eyes, like pure devotion. The sound of his breath in my ear, how it felt like a song created just for me. The scent of his skin, the taste of his chest, his neck. The feeling of the light-colored hairs on his chest as they tickled me. How his body trembled in synch with mine. How it strengthened us. How he and I were always meant to be together. I know him now. And he knows me, in every way.
We did not bother with using protection. I’m sure that on that first night, after he’d serenaded me with the Song of Songs, he’d planted his seed deep within me. How selfish of me to want his child to develop inside me—to sprout up out of what used to be a wasteland, but now feels like fertile ground. It’s a need—a desire as early as the beginning of time.
As I take the last bite of the warm yellow eggs, I look up and see that he’s watching me. He doesn’t need to say anything. I know just by the glow of his skin, the upturn of his mouth, the gleam in his eye. He looks how I feel. Loved. Cherished. Connected on some level that never existed before right this moment. I push away the doubt. This kind of love—it lasts. It withstands. It has to.
I let my eyes speak to him and he rises to find my lips from across the table. He opens the white shirt of his I’d thrown on and grasps me by the softest part of my hips. His hands move up into my hair as his lips and mine co-mingle, coaxing each other. Tingles everywhere.
“The table,” he says, as he takes our plates and sets them on the counter behind him. I nod in agreement as he comes around and lifts me, setting me on the casual lightwood oak. My hair reaches the table second, as he places the soft pad of my right foot on his chest so that he can run first his finger, then his lips up the inside of my leg, slowly, methodically, to drive me crazy with anticipation.
The loud bell of the telephone ringing makes me jump.
He looks at me puzzled. “Your land line?” I ask.
“That’s weird,” he says. “No one ever calls me on this phone. Don’t move,” he says, smiling and all sparkle-eyed as he trots over to the phone hanging on the wall in the kitchen.
“Hello... This is he...Oh, I see...both of us...where?...”
I sit up on my elbows. He looks formal—un-relaxed. His chest looks tight. “Can I have the address, please?”
Then I bolt upright. What’s going on?
“That’s about an hour trip...one o’clock will work...thank you.” As he hangs up the phone he turns to me. He looks perplexed. “That was the State Police. They want us both to come down for interviews. It looks like they found something in your room and have some questions for us.”
“What?”
“We have to go, Sadie. Maybe they’ve caught him.”
“I...” What is going on? Did Officer Howard do this? “Okay,” I say. It’s as if I’ve jumped on a roller coaster and someone pushed start before I had my seatbelt on. “I need to go to the bathroom first,” I say.
“You can come shower with me,” he says, nervously.
“Start the water and I’ll be right there,” I say, smiling that smile I give my fans when they ask for autographs.
I’ve got to call Officer Howard. I’m sure by that look on his face, he knows my fake smiles from my real ones. As he walks away I feel like I’m standing on a cliff. I don’t know if I have the courage to take the leap. I have no clue what’s on the other side, or if Dillon will still love me when I’m there.
Please just let this be okay.
I climb the stairs. I can hear Dillon starting the water as I walk into the bedroom. I throw on Missy’s robe, grab my cloth purse and walk down the stairs again to find the bathroom down here. This bathroom still needs remodeling. It’s not my favorite to go in. As I shut the door and find the number in my phone, my heart is racing. The phone rings in my ear in little short spurts.
“Hello,” he says. “Lee Howard.”
“Officer Howard. This is Sadie Sparks.”
“What can I do for ya, Miss Sparks?”
“Why did the State Police call and want Dillon and me to come in for an interview?”
“Did they call you?” he asks.
“Yeah. They called Dillon’s land line.”
“Okay. I should explain,” he says. “The guy from Fayetteville found a hair when he done the fingerprinting. We sent it to the State Lab. It came back as the chief’s over the weekend. We’d thought Dillon brought it in with him. Or the Chief’d been in the house socially ‘till I got the call I told you about.”
“Renae.”
“I can’t say, ma’am. Yesterday, I called ‘em with my suspicions. Talked to Sergeant Daniels about the call I done got and what you said. Guess they’re ready to proceed.”
“Why are they taking over?”
“They police the police, Miss Sparks.”
“I just don’t think I’m ready. Tomorrow’s my momma’s funeral.”
“I know the timing ain’t right, but we’re on your side. Just think what justice’ll feel like.”
What justice will feel like. What does justice feel like? Maybe a little like having wings.
Our car ride is filled with music, some thoughtful questioning by Dillon, and some vague answers by me. It takes us nearly an hour to make it to South Charleston. I’ve taken to shaking like when I’m cold on the inside. I keep seeing a strand of hair trembling around in my peripheral vision. It’s annoying and soothing at the same time.
My cloth purse feels meaningful as it’s pushing up against my hip filled with my phone and my panties covered
in blood, DNA, and someone else’s sin.
He’s had a hold of my hand for nearly the entire hour, but has said nothing about how it’s been shaking in his. “Are you ready?” he asks, as he turns the key to kill the engine.
I nod my head yes as I feel a wave of nausea hit me like a bucket of water. I force myself to take a deep breath. “Let’s get this over with,” I say, as I shove open the light door harder than I need to and dash out walking toward the brick building contrasted only by the metal letters spelling out West Virginia State Police. For a minute I think it just might say what justice will feel like.
Dillon opens one of the glass double doors for me. As we enter it smells of fake wood, coffee, and crisp apparel. All the troopers are wearing deep hunter green uniforms. It’s busy inside. Before anyone speaks to us, Dillon says, “Sergeant Daniels, please.”
The young trooper behind the counter nods and disappears into a hallway. My legs want to walk or move. They do not want to be still. I look up at Dillon. His jaw is clenched. He’s crossing his arms across his chest. He’s in his jeans. The light colored ones that hang on his hips just so. A crisp white shirt. He turns to me and his eyes soften around the edges.
He reaches down and takes my hand in his. I watch him as he looks at my hand for a moment, then his eyes slowly move up to mine. It’s like his eyes are speaking to me. He looks nervous, but hopeful. That’s how I feel, too.
“Sadie Sparks,” says a voice from behind the counter. A tall thin man in a hunter green uniform, probably in his late forties, with light brown eyes walks out from behind the counter and shakes my hand. His grip is firm and trustworthy. “Dillon McGraw,” he says, taking Dillon’s hand into a firm shake. “We’re going to do the interviews separately, if you don’t mind,” he says, unwavering. “I’ll be meeting with you, Miss Sparks, and Trooper Norman will be meeting with you, Mr. McGraw,” he says.
“Doctor,” I say, before I realize I was going to say it.
“I’m sorry?” he asks, as Dillon nervously moves his weight from one foot to the other.
“It’s fine,” Dillon says, looking at me apologetically.
“Dr. McGraw,” I say, quickly and look down.
“Thank you. Dr. McGraw,” he corrects himself. I look up at Dillon as if to tell him I’m sorry.
He leans down to me and says, “This is what we’ve been waiting for. This is a good thing. Just tell them everything, baby. Okay?”
“I will. I promise.” He kisses me softly at first and then as he’s pulling away, he leans into me, urgently kissing me once more. This kiss is a promise. A pact, and I accept. I let go of his hand one finger at a time, turn and follow the deep green suit down the hallway. I turn once as Dillon is introduced to a short, stocky man who’s wearing a straight wide-brimmed hat indoors.
I have a bad feeling about this.
As we walk down the hall I say, “Dillon doesn’t know who did this to me,” to the officer who nods in acknowledgment and motions to the third door from left.
He opens the door and I step in. It’s cold in here. Too cold. I realize I left my blazer in the car. I shiver once—deep and heavy like a dog shaking off after a dip in the creek and practically fling myself into the stiff looking chair tucked under the Formica table with the metal legs. I hate pressed wood with plastic veneers. It’s like something pretending to be pretty, hiding the ugly, but doing a very bad job at it—maybe it reminds me of me.
I wonder where Dillon is. For some reason I need to know that before we start. “Where’s Dillon?” I ask as he takes the seat opposite from me.
“He’s in the room next door,” he says, honestly, evenly. “Is there anything I can get for you? A pop? Water?”
Although my mouth feels like the Sahara Desert, I shake my head no and rub my arms so that friction will ease the goose bumps popping up to protest the chilly air. “Would you like a coat?”
“Yes,” I say. My mouth almost won’t open to let the words out as my jaw is clenched and I’m shivering in waves and spurts. I rub the lump in my throat through my teal scarf.
He disappears and I search for lint that may be hiding on the top part of my only pair of jeans. When he returns, he’s holding a hunter green trooper coat. I sink my arms into it and turn to face him. At least the outside of me will be warm.
“Miss Sparks, thank you fer coming in. While we’re in here, I’d like ya ta call me Herman.”
“Herman,” I say, to try it out.
“First ‘a all, we’re bein’ recorded in here. See the camera mounted up in the corner there?” he says, pointing to the glass eye bearing down on us. “I know this is hard on ya, so I’d like to tell you, honestly, that I’m investigatin’ more than just the break-in at your momma’s house on last Friday night. I have reason ta believe that incident is related to a’ unreported rape that took place ten years ago. Is that correct?”
I nod my head, yes. My face feels like a statue’s—cold, numb.
“Do you know the man who broke in, Miss Sparks?”
“Sadie, please.” Deflect.
“Sadie.” I nod my head yes. “Who was it, Sadie?” he asks, his voice warm like sitting by the fire on a cold winter’s night.
I want to say it. I open my mouth, my aching jaw almost feels as though it’s creaking over from silent to the truth. Now that my mouth is open, I have to get the words to come out. I’ve never said it. Not out loud.
My heart quickens as I’m about to say it.
“Donnie McGraw,” escapes from the dry open cave of my mouth. I wince. It’s like I’ve expelled a demon into the air around us. I’d swear it’s heaving itself around into the walls of the room. He nods his head to acknowledge my admission.
“Thank you, Sadie,” he says, as he leans in and steeples his hands on the table. “Now, were you raped ten years ago in Ansted, West Virginia?”
I nod my head, “Yes. But Dillon doesn’t know it was his brother. Please, he can’t find out.”
“The trooper’ll wait for him to say who he thinks the suspect is.”
“Okay.”
“Thank you. Now, I need you ta’ tell me what you remember.”
“I have evidence,” I blurt.
“What do you have?”
“A recording and...” I stop and pull the cloth purse from my shoulder. “Here,” I say, setting it on the table between us.
“I have your permission ta look in your property?”
“Yes.”
He opens it and takes out my phone, then the plastic baggie holding my pink panties. He sets them down one next to the other. What a simple act, but how it means so much more. How it’s one more step toward what justice will feel like.
“There’s a recording on the phone with him admitting what he did, threatening me and Dillon. The panties were mine. He cut them and then ripped them off me in the shed after he’d cut my throat. Dillon found them in the shed the other day before he burned it down. I picked them up. Are you going to take them to the crime lab?” Once I can talk, I really do. It’s like a dam broke open.
“Yes, I am,” he says, in his warm fire voice. “I’m gonna step out and get the evidence bags. Be right back,” he says.
As the door shuts behind him, I hear raised voices coming from somewhere in the building. I can’t make out what they’re saying. I put the sleeves of the jacket up to my cold nose. It smells like my daddy’s cologne—both good and bad at the same time.
When he comes back in, he looks slightly rattled. “Is everything okay? Did they tell him something?” I ask.
“No need to worry, Sadie,” he answers. I watch as he pulls on the latex gloves one at time. He opens a paper pad, lays it down flat, rips apart the locked baggie and takes the panties out, setting them on the paper so that they are open and flat. It makes me squirm. For some reason, they remind me of a butterfly pinned into one of those glass boxes.
He pulls out a camera, takes a picture, flips them and clicks again. “It’s good that you gave these to me directly. It�
�s better in court if it don’t change hands too much before it gets to the Crime Lab.”
“Yes, I see.”
“They’re in good shape. Where were they when you found ‘em?”
“Dillon said they were in the corner of the shed between the floor boards and the wall slat.”
“Could be a problem. DNA is harder ta read after it’s been exposed to the elements like that.”
No. I know they have something embedded in them to save me. They have to.
“I have something else.” I slide open the lock on my phone, click the app and press play. Donnie’s words bounce around from wall to wall as if the spirit of what he did to me hides behind every word.
“I’m gonna need ta take this phone, Sadie,” he says.
“Take it? I need it. Can’t I just send you the recording from the phone?”
“I’m sorry, but our technicians are gonna need to validate when it was recorded, and that it was recorded from this device.”
“I have to text my assistant by two o’clock or she’s going to make the post live. I mean publish this recording on my blog,” I say.
“Did you threaten him with that?”
“Yes. To keep him away,” I say through a shaky voice.
“So, the post ain’t gonna go live unless your assistant gets a text from you each day?” he asks, sitting back in the chair behind my evidence out in the open for the first time. No longer in the dark. No longer a secret.
“Sadie, you should have her delete it.”
“No!” I shout. Why am I shouting? I take my voice down a few notes, “I’m sorry, but if he does something to me, that’s my only proof of who did it.”
“Well, text her now. Tomorrow you’ll need to make otha’ arrangements. But I don’t recommend using this as a weapon.”
“I’m not deleting it,” I say under my breath. I open the messenger app. Crap it’s 1: 49. I was almost late. I text Jenny and hand over my phone. One more step.
“The evidence you’ve given me should be enough probable cause to get an arrest warrant in the next few days. But I need a statement from you. Are you ready to do this?”
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