I loved Ana dearly and needed her more right now than I ever had and hopefully ever would, but I couldn’t get into it. Especially not over the phone.
“I promise I’ll explain everything later. In the meantime, I need you to pick up the twins. You are listed as my emergency contact, but I’ll call the school just in case, since they’ve never been picked up by anyone else before. After that, could you take them to your house and watch a movie or whatever until I can come and get them? Oh, and they might have homework, but then again, they’re in kindergarten so if they miss one night, it probably won’t destroy their academic records,” I rambled on. When she didn’t say anything, I added, “I don’t know how late I'll be.”
“Dios mio, now I know something is really wrong,” she said quietly.
“What makes you say that?”
“Besides the fact that you never ask for help from anyone? You’re not giving me the rundown about what they can and can’t watch, what snacks they’re allowed to have, and to watch my language around them… Just please tell me you’re alright, Celeste.”
“I-I- will be.” It was all I could say. I knew I would be. I just had to be.
“Okay," she said after a pause, "I’ll get the twins. Call me when you can.” She hung up and I sent up a quick ‘thank you’ that I had a friend I could count on, one who didn’t badger me with questions when she could tell that the time wasn't right. Someone who I trusted implicitly with Paisley and Parker, even if I did question her judgment about the men in her life. Still, I hated relying on her. I hated relying on anyone. But if there were ever a time I needed to, it was now.
After hanging up with Ana, I called the school. Once I knew that the kids would be taken care of, I made the one call that couldn't be put off any longer.
***
“So let me get this straight,” the detective said, doubt and incredulity clear in his voice. “You made a deal?”
The shock of what had happened was wearing off, my adrenaline plunging to ground zero. Irritation had begun to settle in and unfortunately, this guy was in the line of fire.
“Detective—?”
“Westlake.”
“Okay, Detective Westlake. Do you have children?” Based on appearances, I didn’t think so. But then again, most people assumed I didn’t have kids either.
“No, I don’t. And I also don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“Well, it is,” I informed him. He arched his brow in response. “Because if you did have kids, then you would know why I made the deal that I did. Had I not made a deal, I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you right now. My five-year-old twins would have waited at the school for me to pick them up until someone—probably from Social Services—arrived to tell them that I would never be coming home…oh, and that their beloved dog was also dead. If you did have kids, Detective, then you would also understand that a parent would do anything, and I mean anything, to keep their children from having to experience something like that.”
He seemed to think about this for a few seconds. “So, can you tell me about your…um, negotiation?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said after a deep exhale. “After Joe forced his—”
“Wait, Joe?” he questioned, arching his eyebrow once again.
“That’s what he said his name was. Sorry, I didn’t check the guy’s ID so I couldn’t tell you if he was telling the truth or not.”
Detective Westlake gave me another incredulous look. I continued, undaunted. “But I figured if it was his name, then he wasn’t planning on letting me live long enough to pass that information along.” He nodded his head as if this were an accurate statement.
“Anyway, first thing he did was shoot Hero…I know, I know, you don’t have to tell me. Terrible name for a dog, and not much of a ‘hero’ when it came down to it. But at that point, I knew two things: his gun was loaded and he wasn’t afraid to use it. He wasn’t wearing a mask, so the fact that I could identify him and he readily told me his name, I knew my chances of surviving this…um, encounter…were next to none.”
“You were probably right,” he said, nodding again. Good, a detective who was honest and not full of bullshit.
“I know.” Another arched eyebrow. Damn, he was good at that. And worse, he looked good doing it. Moving on, Celeste.
“Because I knew this, I made a decision. I wasn’t going to let my kids grow up without a mother because of Joe-the-motherfucking-delivery-guy-who-probably-wasn’t-even-a-delivery-guy. They need me and I…”
I couldn’t go on, not with the Texas-sized lump in my throat. Looking away from the detective, I tried to gain control over the tears I could feel burning the back of my eyes, begging to be released. I didn’t want to cry because it made me feel weak and powerless, which was exactly how I felt at that moment.
I focused on the one wall that wasn’t covered in pictures of Parker and Paisley; seeing their perfect little faces would undoubtedly unleash the threatening torrent. My blurry eyes concentrated instead on a framed Ernest Hemingway quote, and I felt the corners of my mouth turn up slightly, though it was difficult to say whether it was because of the irony of those words or the strength I derived from them.
The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.
When I knew I had stuffed any semblance of fear or pain as deep inside as it could go, I glanced back at the detective, who was now looking over at the quote himself with a curious expression on his face. Before he could ask any questions, I cleared my throat to draw his attention. He looked back at me quickly, his face a blank mask that I’m sure mirrored my own.
“After he made it clear what was going to happen,” I continued, “I told him that if he would let me live, I wouldn’t fight him.”
“And he agreed?” he asked.
“Yes, and he shook on it.”
“He shook on it?” he repeated dubiously.
“Yes, and before you say anything, I know he could have been lying or could have changed his mind. But it’s not like I had a lot of options at that point, right?”
After staring at me for what seemed like hours but was probably only a few seconds, he answered slowly. “Right. So you went with him to your bedroom?” he prompted.
“Yes,” I responded, without elaborating further.
“Ms. Logan,” he prodded gently. “I promise that I don’t want to ask this any more than you want to answer it, but I need to know what happened next.”
Feeling more put out with him than I should, considering I knew he was only doing his job, I answered, “Well, if you must have a play-by-play, let’s go upstairs—”
His eyes widened immediately. “Are you okay to go back in there?”
“Sure, why not? And probably the sooner, the better. ‘Getting back on the horse’ and all that…” I trailed off, then turned and started up the stairs. I could hear the detective following behind, happy that he was following me instead of creepy Joe, and that this time, there wasn’t a gun barrel pointed at my back. Oh, and that I wasn’t about to be raped. Ah, the little things in life.
As soon as we entered, an involuntary shiver shot through my body. I began speaking quickly in hopes that he didn’t notice. “The first thing I did was go directly to this side table,” I said, indicating the one beside the king-sized bed where I sleep. Slept was more like it. No way was I ever getting in that bed again, despite what I just told the detective.
“I pulled out a condom and—” I noticed that his jaw had dropped and wondered if his shock was due to the fact that I kept protection in my house. If only it had been another form of protection…now that would have been helpful.
“You got a condom?” he asked disbelievingly.
“Yes.”
“And he agreed to use it?” he questioned, not attempting to hide the doubt in his voice. What, did he think that I forced the guy to wear one? I tried to subdue my frustration.
“Not at first. But I threatened him with eighteen years of child supp
ort if I ended up pregnant, and after telling me that I was more trouble than his ex, he agreed.”
“You’re shitting me,” he deadpanned.
“No, I assure you I’m not.”
“Unbelievable. Not that I don’t believe you,” he quickly corrected himself. “But the fact that you were able to get him to use a condom or listen to you at all, for that matter, is unheard of. I can’t think of a single case where this has happened.”
“Well, I did what I had to do, and with my luck, I definitely would have ended up pregnant. And since this guy was ugly as sin, it wouldn’t bode well for my future child, now would it?” I added, trying to lighten the tone of the conversation.
He stared at me and then shook his head slightly, as if to clear it. “So after he agreed to wear a condom…”
“He told me that he was through talking and to get undressed. I had promised to cooperate, so I did what he said. He wanted me to undress him, so I did.” I said this in an almost clinical fashion, hoping he could just use his imagination for the rest. Evidently, he couldn’t.
“I’m sorry, but I have to ask…” And he truly did look sorry. In any other situation, I probably would have felt bad for the guy.
“I know,” I said with a heavy sigh. Deep breath, Celeste. Then I began….
***
After reliving what had happened for hopefully (but not likely) the last time, I finally looked up into his eyes and saw pure, unadulterated compassion. Since it wasn’t pity, I could deal with it. Pity just pissed me off. He didn’t seem to be able to speak, and I was ready to get going, so I asked, “Where do we go from here?”
Snapping out of it, he answered, “Well, I need you to meet with our local forensic artist, who will sketch a facial composite based on your description of the attacker. This will be crucial to our investigation, so please provide every detail you can remember. As glad as I am that he wore a condom, for your sake, it makes our job a hell of a lot harder without a semen sample. Not saying that it’s impossible though, and maybe the hospital can—”
“DNA won’t be a problem,” I interrupted him. He looked at me questioningly, so I continued. “Even though he didn’t seem like the brightest crayon in the box, I knew that if he had half a brain, he’d flush the condom down the toilet…which he did. So, I raked my fingernails down his back. Of course, the dumbass probably thought it was an act of passion. Regardless, I haven’t washed my hands since it happened, which has been extremely difficult for me not to do, I might add.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope, still not.”
“What would make you think to do that?”
“You mean, do I watch CSI? No, actually, I don’t even have cable, even though I am well aware of what a great babysitter the TV could be. But I would much rather read or play games with the twins or spend time outside or—”
“You didn’t answer my question, but those are nice things to know,” he interrupted gently. I couldn’t help but notice when one of side of his mouth barely turned upward.
I sighed. He was probably going to find out anyway before this whole nightmare was over. “Let’s just say that this isn’t my first rodeo,” I answered quietly and looked away, but not before catching the look of horror that swept over his face as recognition hit him as to what my statement meant.
“This has happened to you before?” he breathed, barely above a whisper.
“Yes. State of Texas v. Jared Kyle Young. You’re welcome to look up the case if you want, not that it’s relevant. The two incidents are nothing alike.”
“I’ll decide if it’s relevant,” he said, sounding almost angry. Which, of course, was making me angry. What the hell was he getting upset about? That was the past, and the past was exactly where it should stay.
“Fine, if you must know—and because you’ll find out soon enough anyway—I was the victim of date rape when I was younger…much younger. I fought like hell, and it didn’t turn out well. There wasn’t a gun involved but I was beaten pretty badly.” I continued quickly, hoping he wouldn’t ask any more questions, “That’s how I knew that this time I didn’t stand a chance. And obviously I didn't have kids then. Speaking of which, I would really like to get out of here so I can go get them. Can we head to the hospital now?”
If it were possible, he looked even angrier than he did before. I’m not sure if this anger was directed at asshole number one, dickhead number two, or me, for jacking up his whole day.
“Thompson! Price!” he yelled, startling my still-raw nerves. When the two guys entered the room a minute later, the detective spoke to them in what was definitely not his talking-to-a-victim voice. “Take Ms. Logan to the Med. They’ll know what to do. Make sure they get the skin cells from under her fingernails before she washes her hands. After that’s done, bring her to the station and I’ll have the artist ready to sketch. The faster we get a look at this fucker, the better.”
“Yessir,” Thompson or Price answered.
“Ma’am,” the detective said, now looking at me. “I’m sure I’ll see you again today. I’ve got to get back to the station.” His clipped tone made it seem like he couldn’t get away from me fast enough. Then he turned and walked away, leaving me to wonder what was so damn important that he couldn’t be bothered going to the hospital with me himself. If I didn’t know it already—which I obviously did—there was one truth I knew, without a doubt: men suck.
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