by Jamie Beck
Emmy did eventually wander to the doorway, eating from a bag of pretzels. She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “It would’ve been prettier if it had been pink or yellow.”
Steffi smiled. “If I recall, your dad said you could paint your bedroom pink. I’d be happy to teach you to do that when you’re ready.”
Emmy’s gaze narrowed, torn between wanting to say yes and resisting the demise of her nuclear family. “Maybe.”
Steffi hesitated, wanting to ask Emmy questions. Instead, she wound the hose of the sprayer and continued cleaning up her work space, pretending not to care whether Emmy wanted to speak with her.
“What’s that?” Emmy asked, now stepping into the room.
She covered a smile. “It’s a sprayer. It’s a quick way to paint walls, although I’ll still paint the trim with a brush.”
Emmy’s gaze remained fixed on the equipment. “If we paint my room, would we use the sprayer?”
We. A positive sign. Steffi must be doing this right. “Yes, on the walls.”
“Would you let me use it?” She finally made eye contact with Steffi.
“I’d show you how, and we could see how it goes. It’s not as easy as it looks and takes practice. You don’t want your walls to have drips or globs or an uneven tone, right?”
“No,” Emmy said.
Steffi continued to act as if they hadn’t had the bad experience at the fair. Avoidance was something she’d always done well, after all.
Molly and Claire came back inside carrying the artwork. “Oh, Emmy. You’re home. What do you think of these?” Molly asked her granddaughter.
“I like that one.” Emmy pointed at an abstract gray, blue, and pink impasto painting.
“Me too,” Molly agreed. “It’ll look especially nice on that wall.”
Emmy nodded and then, apparently bored with the conversation, asked, “What’s for dinner?”
“You pick. Your father has other plans for dinner, and Grandpap doesn’t care. I’ve been busy today, so I haven’t made anything yet. We could just have hamburgers and Tater Tots.”
“Yes, that!” Emmy jumped. “And no salad.”
“Carrots?” Molly suggested.
Emmy wrinkled her nose. “I’m not a rabbit.”
“Let’s go find a compromise vegetable and let these ladies finish their work.” Molly scooted Emmy back into the kitchen.
Steffi noticed Molly hadn’t mentioned that Ryan’s dinner plans involved her, so she kept quiet.
“I’ll see you at home tonight?” Claire asked. She and Steffi hadn’t spoken about the Logan run-in since it had happened, but Claire seemed to have found her way past it. Perhaps her mom and chocolate really did work miracles. Steffi wouldn’t know about that kind of comfort. It’d been too long since she’d had a mother to lean on.
“I’m leaving here to check on the Hightop crew, then heading over to the bungalow to start demo. Probably won’t get home until nine or so.”
“While I’m here, let me do a quick run through the Weber home so I can start thinking up ideas.” Claire shrugged, accepting defeat. “Might as well get excited about it now that we’ve taken the leap.”
“Yay!” Steffi clapped her on the shoulder. “You’re going to fall in love.”
Ryan returned from the Hartford Correctional Center and climbed the stairs to his office. His shoelace had come untied, his coat unbuttoned, and his tie loosened. Some days this job got the better of him, but he’d have to pull it together for a meeting with his boss in twenty minutes.
When he arrived at his desk, he dropped his briefcase on the floor and hung his jacket on the back of his chair before slouching into it and turning on his computer. A manila envelope with his first name written in black Sharpie sat on top of his keyboard.
He turned it over, finding no note, return address, or anything else to identify its contents or who delivered it. The last thing he wanted was another unexpected surprise in his shitty day.
Using the letter opener from the desk set Val had given him when he got his first job, he opened the envelope and pulled out a police report. A quick scan of the header proved it to be the police report. The one he’d asked Billy to filch before he rescinded his request.
He slammed it facedown on his desk and stared blankly at the wall. His entire body went cold while his heart gathered speed in his chest. He froze like a man in the middle of a high-wire act when a stiff wind blew. What had he done? Reading the file would be a gross violation of Steffi’s privacy. It’d transform him into what he’d always disdained—someone who believed that the ends justified the means.
Damn it, he regretted having the option to confirm his worst fear. If Billy had planned to ignore Ryan’s wishes, he should’ve absolved Ryan from making the choice by simply blurting out the information. Now Ryan would have to cross the line if he wanted the answer.
Staring at the back of the report, Ryan had never felt more alone. He couldn’t talk it through with anyone—save Billy. Couldn’t ask his mother for advice. Couldn’t predict how Steffi would react to the evidence.
He tossed the file in the trash and stared at it.
His thoughts churned, starting with Claire’s concerns that Steffi’s behavior was affecting their business. He sifted through his own experience with the staggering range of her mental lapses: small zone-outs in the backyard and by the lake, her freak-out when things between them got physical, and the fainting spell that caused her to lose track of Emmy.
If there was an answer in that report that would lead to healing—to a healthier, safer life for her and for them—he owed it to everyone to discover the truth. In this extreme case, perhaps the ends did justify the means.
Before he could talk himself out of it again, he snatched the file from the trash and flipped the pages over.
He’d read thousands of police reports, known dozens of sexual assault claims. Seen photographs and descriptions of the injuries inflicted on those victims. Reviewed the evidence collected by sexual assault evidence kits.
In all prior cases, it had been easy to dissociate from the faceless victims. This report discussed Steffi’s brutal attack. Her body. Her injuries.
Her blood alcohol level had been elevated. The report stated she’d been highly disturbed yet groggy, with little memory of anything, including being found in the alley and put in the ambulance. She’d consented to letting the cops speak with the ER doctor, who said she saw physical evidence of rape, but Steffi had, in a state of bewilderment, declined the rape kit. Steffi never mentioned rape to the officer, and he didn’t suggest it so as not to taint her statement. Without a rape kit, they lacked DNA evidence to track the suspects. And with Steffi’s relative incoherence and inability to recall specific details about the perps or anything else, they had little to nothing to go on.
Ryan couldn’t push away images of her struggling to defend herself against two strange men, or her panic and rage as they forced themselves on her. He thought of the abject fear at having a gun held to one’s head, and the pain of being knocked unconscious with it so the perps could escape. The idea of her being violated, humiliated, beaten, and left unconscious proved too much for him.
He heaved, swallowing back bile, but then reached for the trash can again and threw up. He’d never be able to unsee the photographs of her swollen eye and bruising. Never stop picturing the assault. And now he wondered if he’d be able to help her be whole again. He knew nothing about helping a person recover from that kind of trauma, including whether it was even possible.
His stomach turned again, but then sorrow hardened into fury. The justice system he believed in had failed her, and nothing he could do now would change that. Maybe she’d be better off not knowing the truth if, in fact, she didn’t remember.
He inhaled slowly several times to control his racing thoughts and search for solutions. Steffi might never be “the same,” but she wasn’t broken. She’d moved on, whether through denial or repression. Could he move on in silence? Leave t
he truth alone and let her manage the blackouts?
It seemed too big a secret to keep. It would be between them now if he didn’t tell her what he knew. Secrets like this could destroy a relationship.
He couldn’t offer closure, but he could give her love and support. He scrolled through his contacts to find the number for Melissa Mathers, a psychiatrist he’d worked with on a few cases in Boston.
“Dr. Mathers,” she answered.
“Hi, Dr. Mathers. This is Ryan Quinn, from the PD’s office.”
“Mr. Quinn, how can I help you?”
“I’m actually calling on a personal matter. Can you spare a few minutes to give me some advice?”
“Sure.”
She remained eerily quiet while he laid out the facts of Steffi’s situation.
“I can’t offer a diagnosis based solely on what you’ve told me. It’s possible she doesn’t recall the sexual assault—or has an extremely fragmented, foggy recollection that’s more like a dream than reality. That can happen for a variety of reasons, and there’s still a lot we don’t understand about how the brain processes trauma. It’s also rare but possible for someone to dissociate from an extremely traumatic event. They will tend to use distancing language, referring to it as the ‘event’ or ‘incident.’ They’ll avoid talking about it at all costs. Her history of concussions further complicates the matter.” Melissa went into more detail about the amygdala, the prefrontal cortex, and other mechanics of what happens when your brain is in survival mode. He took notes, but his eyes kept straying to the police report, and then his stomach would burn. “I wouldn’t recommend you go charging at her with these records. Get her to a doctor who can help her access and process the memories.”
“I’ve tried, but she doesn’t believe in therapy, and she doesn’t think she needs it because, in her mind, she was only mugged. How will I convince her to go without telling her what I know?”
“Keep pressing the safety angle with respect to the blackouts. I can give you a few referrals.”
“I’m not in Boston anymore. I’m in Connecticut.”
“A classmate of mine who specializes in trauma recovery is at Yale, if that’s not too far from you.”
Ryan scribbled down the contact info, thanked her for her time, and made another call. Once again he felt the hand of fate intervene. A cancellation enabled him to set up an appointment for Steffi the next day. Now he just had to get her there.
He’d do his best not to mention the file, but failing that, he’d confess what he’d done, stay with her until morning, and pray that the right kind of help could save them both. After weeks of having little to no control over so much in his life, it did feel good to finally have a plan.
He’d forgiven her mistakes, so she should forgive him this one time, especially because he’d only gone behind her back to help her.
Ryan barely muddled through his meeting with his boss, knowing that what Billy had done for him could get them in hot water. He pulled up to his mother’s house, still debating his options.
His mother would know how to coax Steffi into therapy. He trusted her judgment, and she knew Steffi well. But disclosing the deeply personal history would be an even worse betrayal than what he’d already done, so he was out of luck and on his own. He popped another Pepcid and wandered toward the house.
Steffi expected him and a pizza at the Weber bungalow soon. He didn’t have much time to prepare.
“Dad!” Emmy called when he came inside. “I thought you weren’t having dinner with us. We’re making burgers and Tots.”
“I can smell them.” He kissed her head and squeezed her extra hard. God help anyone who ever hurt his daughter. He wanted to bundle her up away from the violent world to a place where she wouldn’t know betrayal or harm of any kind. “I’m actually meeting Steffi in a bit. She needs my help . . .”
His voice had cracked, so he swallowed.
Emmy cocked her head like a puppy dog. Her small brown brows pinched together as she touched his face. “You look sad.”
He took her fingers and kissed them. “I had a hard day.”
“Then stay home now.” She hugged him. “We can play a game.”
He held her tight and kissed her head. “Tomorrow, okay? I promised Steffi I’d help her work on that cottage at the end of the lane. She’s starting to take out all the old stuff so she can fill it with pretty new things.”
It helped to think of what he planned to do as being like Steffi’s work. Breaking down her mental block so that, with love and therapy, they could rebuild her wounded parts into something even stronger and more beautiful.
“Can I help?”
“Not tonight. There will be lots of ways you can help in the coming months.” He smiled, grateful that his daughter’s frosty attitude toward Steffi might begin to thaw. Hopefully, Steffi wouldn’t give them both the cold shoulder after she learned what he’d done. If so, he might not forgive himself for hurting his daughter again, too. “I need to change my clothes. Finish up your homework after dinner. When I get home, maybe we’ll have time for a story or something.”
“Okay.” Emmy heaved an exaggerated sigh before bounding back to the kitchen.
He climbed the stairs, the task ahead dragging at him, not nearly as clear-cut in reality as it had been in theory. Few things in life ever were.
When he came back downstairs, his mother was folding a throw and laying it over the back of the sofa. “Emmy says you’re off to the Weber house to help Stefanie now.”
“Yep.” He avoided making eye contact because his hawk of a mom would know something was wrong if she studied him too closely.
“Such a quaint old house. You really ought to buy it so you’d have privacy with the convenience of being neighbors.”
“You’re worse than Steffi with that refrain.” He finally looked at her, a faint smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
“Great minds.” She winked. “When you get back, your dad wants help moving our dresser. The family room project has inspired me to do a little rearranging elsewhere.”
“This could be a late night. How about tomorrow?” He tucked the rolled-up report into his barn coat. “I’m late, so I’ll see you later.”
“Have fun!” she called out as he closed the door.
Fun? Not likely.
He’d consider it a victory if he returned home with his body and heart intact.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ryan strode up the porch steps of the bungalow that had been his and Steffi’s dream home. Like most teens, he’d been certain of everything despite knowing almost nothing.
At thirty-one, he’d learned that dreams without commitment were just fanciful wishes. There was no foolproof plan to turn a dream into reality, either, because events beyond your control could force choices that pushed it out of reach. Even now, his good intentions threatened to destroy his new reality.
He knocked on the door before opening it and poking his head inside. “Steffi?”
“In here!” Her voice rang out from the vicinity of the kitchen before she triggered an electric screwdriver. Her jubilant tone gave him a pause. But the appointment tomorrow . . .
Dread and doubt shackled his ankles, slowing his trek through the living and dining rooms. When he arrived at the kitchen, Steffi was pulling a narrow upper cabinet off the wall.
“Need help?” he asked, reaching out.
“Nah,” she grunted while navigating the cabinet to the ground without dropping it. “I’ve got this one.”
Here, relaxed and doing work she loved, she looked invincible—unlike a woman whose body had been abused. Images of her bruised legs and battered head flashed through his thoughts, prompting yet another moment of intense hatred of the men who’d brutalized her.
When she turned to greet him, her cheerful face penetrated his heart like that drill on the counter. He strode to her without a word and wrapped her in a hug.
“I like this greeting,” she mumbled against his chest. He could pr
actically feel her smiling as she snuggled inside his embrace. “But where’s the pizza? The rumbling in my stomach might bring the walls down. That’d require a little more reno than I can afford.”
He squeezed her harder, as if his holding her tight might keep her—and them—from breaking. In truth, he might be trying to keep himself from falling apart before he finished what he’d come here to say.
“What’s going on?” she asked, her playful tone slipping to concern. “Did something happen today?”
He shook his head—not that she could see it. His throat constricted, cutting off all words.
She stroked his cheek. “Something did happen. I can tell. Is Emmy okay? Did you argue with Val?”
“No.” His voice wavered. He paused, reticent to upend her whole world. “They’re both fine.”
“Then, what?” She held his face with both hands, her thumbs stroking his cheeks.
He glanced around, searching in vain for someplace comfortable to sit and talk. The dim, empty old rooms foretold disaster, but he couldn’t turn back now. Like Pandora, he had to face the consequences of his curiosity. “We need to talk.”
She stepped back and hugged herself. “Uh-oh.”
“No, not like that.” He reached for her hands.
“You’re making me nervous. I’ve never seen you look so . . . so sick.” She kept hold of his hands and jiggled his arms. “Just spit it out.”
If only it were that simple. He had rehearsed this in his head, but in person, nothing he’d planned seemed right.
“First, I need to tell you that I love you.”
The unplanned declaration lit her eyes and surprised them both. He would’ve rather not made that declaration now, when something so explosive would quickly overshadow the beauty of the moment. Yet nothing he’d said in recent weeks or months had rung as true in his heart.