by Karina Halle
Shane leads me up to the tiny guesthouse where he’s been living, and I’m grateful at how far removed it is from the main house and the worker’s cottage, thankful for the privacy.
He helps me inside, sits me down on the couch, wraps me in a blanket. His dog Fletcher, a gangly puppy, sits on the handmade rug at my feet, while Shane puts on the kettle.
He doesn’t say a word to me, which I appreciate. He just seems to know.
He makes me tea with a big splash of rye in it and hands it to me, taking the spot beside me. Close but not too close. He doesn’t want to crowd me, doesn’t want to pressure me. He just needs me to know that he’s there. He brims with patience, with love.
God, I’m not sure I deserve the love of this man.
Finally, after I’ve had a few gulps of tea, he leans over and tenderly brushes the hair off my forehead that now throbs red with pain.
“He did this to you,” he says, his voice tight as he stares at the mark.
I look at him in surprise. “Who?”
His jaw is set so hard I’m afraid it might snap off. His eyes are wild and he’s trying so hard to control himself. “Your father.”
He knows. He’s always known.
I take a moment, trying to breathe. “I did this,” I manage to say.
Shane stares at me so fiercely I almost shrink in my seat.
“I headbutted him,” I clarify, trying to sound strong and proud but my voice is shaking and I’m shaking, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever feel solid again.
I watch his Adam’s apple as he swallows. “Rachel,” he whispers, licking his lips. “I…how long has this been happening?”
Shame floods me from head to toe, but I can’t keep it in anymore. Not anymore.
“Years,” I tell him, staring at Fletcher as he breathes at my feet, in a deep sleep. “He…uh…I don’t know how to start. Where to start. I don’t want to say…”
“Rachel,” he says again, his voice cracking as his hand holds mine. “Please. I know this is hard. But you have to tell me. You have to. Everything.”
I close my eyes, trying to find the strength. For so long I’ve kept all of this hidden, locked away in a box inside of me. A place that no one else could find, a place I hoped wouldn’t taint my life. But little by little, it leaked. Everything I tried so hard to hide and bury, it leaked like blood from a wound, staining everything I did.
Now Shane sees it all over me. I can no longer pretend that this isn’t destroying me from the inside out, that I’m not living one huge lie.
And so I tell him. I tell him that my father started sexually abusing me when I was twelve, and though it didn’t happen all the time, it was enough. And when he wasn’t doing that, he was telling me I was nothing more than a mangy dog, ready to be sent to the pound at any moment. He told me that I wasn’t fit to be a part of the family, that no one loved me, no one rooted for me, no one believed in me. And no one would believe me. He really drove that part home. That he was someone and I was no one. Just a slut. A whore. Someone that shouldn’t have been born.
I saw the abuse spread to my mother in small doses. I saw him hit her and she’d stay home from work to hide the evidence, or he’d start hitting her in places no one could see. I don’t know what else he did. I don’t know if the attention I got was unique.
But I knew we were both trapped. I knew we had to get out, to break free.
I told my mother one day that I knew what was happening. I told her I was going to report him. I told her I knew he was hurting her and I told her what he was doing to me.
It was the hardest thing I’d ever had to say.
But even harder after that was trying to believe I deserved any love at all. Because when I told my mother, she just shook her head and told me I was lying.
She pushed me away. She told me that it wasn’t true, that I was making things up for attention.
She did all this and she wouldn’t even look me in the eye.
It didn’t matter how much I cried and begged and screamed.
She turned her back on me.
And that’s when I knew I didn’t have a soul in the world on my side.
“But you have me,” Shane says after a few moments of silence. He started gripping my hand so hard that eventually he had to let go. Now he’s balling his hands into fists. “You know you have me.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I was just so afraid to tell you. I thought that you’d be disgusted by me. That you’d look at me differently. I couldn’t bear the thought of it.”
“Rachel,” he whispers hoarsely. He tucks my hair behind my ear, gently cupping my face as he stares into my eyes. “I love you. Body and soul. I will never stop loving you. I will never stop being there for you. You’re my whole fucking life, Raven.” He pauses. “Did he try to touch you tonight?”
I nod. “And I stopped being silent. I fought back. And he fought back harder. It’s been years since he’s tried anything with me, maybe he’s been afraid now that I’m older, but I could feel it coming. It’s like the devil himself is sitting outside your room, biding his time.”
He chews on his lip and starts wringing his hands until his knuckles are white. “I’m going to kill him,” he says calmly.
“Shane. You can’t. I told you this in confidence.”
He looks at me, his eyes burning like wildfire. “Your father, the town cop, has been abusing you and your mother for years. I’m going to fucking kill him with my bare fucking hands.”
I’ve never seen that look on Shane’s face before. If I were anyone else, I would be frightened to death. “You can’t. You can’t, okay? No one will believe me. No one. And no one will believe you either. Don’t you know by now that he has this fucking town eating out of his hand?”
“Only because people fear him, not because they like or respect him.”
“And what’s the difference? They’ll still take his side no matter what. The police chief being accused of abuse. Do you really think that will fly? And do you think I’ll escape unscathed? I’ve had to live in shame, I’ve had to will myself to not exist. I’ve done all I could to prevent this, to pretend it isn’t happening. That would put all of it out there for the whole town, the whole province, the whole country to see. And you know it. Do you really want me to go through that?”
“He can’t get away with this,” he says through grinding teeth. He gets to his feet and I’m sure he’s about to put his fist through the wall. “He won’t get away with this. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Shane!” I say sharply enough that Fletcher jumps to his feet, giving us a baleful stare. “Please promise me you won’t do anything. You won’t say anything. Please.”
He leans against the wall, resting his head against it. Every single muscle in his back is tense and ready to go, ready to fight.
“Shane,” I say again, getting up and placing my hand on his shoulder. “Please. I told you because I trust you. I trust you to do the right thing and that’s to keep it to yourself.”
“That’s why you wanted to run away,” he says softly.
“Yes. It wasn’t just this town, it’s him. I’ve been saying it for years, but…”
“But you’ve been waiting for me.”
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
He turns his head and his stark gaze holds me. “I should have listened. I should have run with you. I should have understood what you were saying. I should have dug deeper.”
I swallow, thirsty, my throat beyond dry. A fizzy kind of weakness goes through me, making my knees feel like jelly.
“Hey,” Shane says, immediately reaching out for me and pulling me against him. “How hard did you hit him? Do I need to take you to the hospital?” He runs his hands gently over my forehead.
I shake my head. “No, I’m fine. I’m fine. I…I’ve…I’ve never told a soul. Never told a soul and now I have, and…”
I burst into tears. Tears I’ve spent so long trying to control. I let them flow, soaking Shane’s shirt as
he grips me, holding me tight.
“It’s over,” he says to me. “I’ve got you. And I’ll never let you out of my sight. I’ll never let you go. You fly, I fly. I promise.”
And I believe his promise, as I believe all of Shane’s promises.
Because he loves me.
He loves me.
That’s the only true thing I know in this whole world.
I hate to think what would happen if it were ever taken away.
“It’s over,” he says again.
But despite the conviction in his voice, I know it’s not that simple.
It’s not over.
It’s just beginning.
12
Shane
PAST - 20 years old
Rachel is asleep on my couch, and I’ve covered her in a quilt. She’s breathing deeply, her chest rising and falling. There’s a red mark on her forehead where she had to headbutt her father in self defense, but other than that, there’s no sign that anything happened.
And yet I know she’s carrying a million scars underneath her skin. They’re imprinted on her heart, tarnishing her soul. She hides them deep inside so no one will find them. She believes they make her dirty, but I think they make her strong. She’s the strongest woman I know. She’s endured years of abuse at the hands of a monster, a man who has been sworn to protect her, to protect his wife, to protect the citizens of this town.
And I’m going to end that all. I’m going to make sure that he protects no one ever again.
Rachel confided in me tonight with something she’s kept buried and tonight she let it all out, a hand reaching out from the grave, skeletons rolling out of the closet. She’s trusted me with this and I can’t break her trust, even when I know I should. Even when I know I have to.
I get it, too. I get that she doesn’t want this to come to light, that’s she afraid she’ll lose, that the town will see her in a different way, maybe as a victim, maybe as a harlot. Who knows. People talk. Rumors spread. I’ve seen people here turn on each other. It happens all the time. For all the good things that happen in small towns, the very people who wave at you as you drive by, who know you by name, are sometimes the very people willing to throw you under a bus. Small towns don’t always breed compassion and solidarity. They breed intimacy, but that’s not the same thing, not by a long shot.
There’s a chance that Rachel could be dragged through the mud, especially if her mother isn’t willing to come to her side. Clearly the woman is also a victim of abuse, but I know she’s probably living in extreme denial of what’s going on. If she’s afraid, she could take his side. And where would that leave Rachel?
No. I know that’s the right thing to do, but the right thing usually only pans out in movies. I’ve got something else I want to do, the justice this man deserves.
“Rachel,” I call out softly.
She doesn’t move. She continues to breathe deeply. I gave her a lot of whisky and sleepy tea in order to relax her and calm her down. I don’t think she’s going to stir all night.
Quietly, I slip on my coat and take the shotgun off the gun rack.
I step out into the night, gently closing the door behind me.
The air is crisp and cool, but inside I’m a barely contained fire, just dying to spill out.
I get in my truck and drive across town, all the way to the Waters’ house.
I don’t really have a plan. My thoughts have slowed to a dull crawl.
I park the truck around the corner.
I leap over the small rounded gate that leads to the stone path up to the house.
I open the door, poking my head inside.
It’s dark with only a hall light on. The blue clock of the microwave glows. The house is as still as a tomb and almost as quiet except for snoring coming from the living room.
There lies Rachel’s mother, passed out on the couch.
I clear my throat, testing the waters.
“Vernalee,” I say.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even stir.
I put my shotgun down against the wall and crouch down, picking her up.
I carry her all the way to the bedroom, placing her in bed. I get a glass of water and some Advil and put it beside her on the table. I know I should hate this woman for not believing her own daughter, for turning her away. But I can’t. I only feel deep sorrow and pity that she’s stuck in this situation, and until she faces it herself, she’ll never escape. No amount of drinking will ever do that.
I leave her in the bed, closing the door behind her, making sure it’s latched shut.
Then I switch off the hall light, pick up the shotgun, sit down on the couch in the living room, and wait in the darkness.
I think it’s been a couple of hours when I hear a car outside on the street. It runs for a few minutes and then turns off. The engine clicks.
The gate creaks open.
There are footsteps up the front steps.
The door opens with ease. No one locks doors in this town. What’s the point when the monsters already live with you?
I know it’s a matter of seconds before he spots me waiting in the dark with a shotgun. He might even pull his gun first.
I could just shoot him right now. But that would be too easy and I don’t want to get this over with just yet.
He turns into the kitchen and the room glows a cold white as he opens the refrigerator door.
I’m already on my feet. I’m behind him.
The barrel of the gun aimed at the back of his head.
My finger presses against the trigger.
It would be so easy to squeeze.
But I don’t.
I pull the gun back, and in the time that Errol Waters whirls around to face me, reaching for the gun in his holster as he does so, I’m swinging the shotgun clear across his face.
Blood sprays on the wall, his cheek collapsing as he’s thrown against the kitchen counter, the edge striking him in the ribs.
He cries out as he falls, but I’m already bringing the gun down over his head, striking him right across the crown.
“Help,” he cries out, his words garbled with blood and spit, but I’m putting the gun on the table and grabbing him by the collar, hauling him up to meet my face.
“You sick son of a bitch,” I sneer at him, spittle flying. The rage I have inside licks me—unrelenting, dangerous flames. “I should fucking kill you right here. Maybe I will.”
I slam him back against the fridge, and before he has a chance to duck or move, I strike him in the cheek. My fist cries out in pain but I’ve learned to ignore it. Errol is taller and bigger than me, but fighting Fox has taught me well over the years.
I start pummeling him, hitting his nose, his jaw, his cheek, his eye. The skin beneath my knuckles is slick with blood and soft, turning to pulp, but I can’t stop. The rage is all-encompassing and all I can think about is Rachel.
Revenge for Rachel.
Revenge for the woman I love.
“You sick fuck, you sick fuck,” I keep grunting over and over, like I’m in some kind of trance. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”
And even though I’m not using my gun, I know if I keep going, I’m going to. I’m going to beat his nose back into his brain and shatter the grey matter with shards of bone. I’m going to end his life like this, lying in a puddle of blood on his kitchen floor, and I know he deserves worse, so much worse. I could go on like this for hours.
I just might.
Then I hear someone behind me, and even though I don’t hear a gun being cocked I know one is pointed at my head. That’s something you can feel deep in the seat of you.
“Stop,” a man’s voice says. “Put your hands up. Now.”
The man isn’t calm. His voice is weak, shaking, and I know it’s the voice of Constable James Zimmer. He’s not about to fire his gun on me, but if he’s as panicked as he sounds, he might.
I raise my hands in the air and Errol slumps to the floor, spitting out blood and teeth.
>
“Turn around,” Zimmer says.
I slowly turn around, my chin raised along with my hands.
The look of shock that comes over his face is almost humorous. “Shane Nelson?” he asks.
I don’t say a word.
And Errol, he’s not done. He’s not knocked out, though he should be after what I did to him. He shouldn’t even be able to breathe even though he’s slowly getting to his feet beside me.
“Errol, are you okay?” Zimmer asks him.
But Errol is not okay. He’s able to stand if he’s holding on to the kitchen counter, but he’s not okay.
“Shane, what the hell are you doing? What happened?” Zimmer asks me.
But I don’t know what to say. I’m supposed to keep this to myself.
I can’t anymore. I’ve gone too far. I pray Rachel can forgive me.
“Justice,” I tell him. “Why don’t you ask him what he’s been doing to his wife and daughter for years? I’m sure if they had the strength, they would have done the same.”
Zimmer is beyond puzzled, the shadows on his face deepening in the darkness. “What the hell are you talking about? Errol?”
Errol raises his head to look at me.
I meet his eyes and it’s like looking into the face of hell itself.
His eyes blaze with a shining blackness, like this whole thing has excited him instead of breaking his spirit. “This man,” Errol says hoarsely, slurring, barely able to move his jaw, “broke into my house with the intention to murder me. He had a shotgun aimed at my head before I fought back, and then he attempted to beat me…to death.”
Everything inside me seizes. I look to Zimmer. “I came here because Rachel, his daughter, said he’s been—”
“This man came here with the intent to fucking kill me,” Errol cries out. “Arrest him.”
Zimmer moves toward me, one shaking hand holding the gun, the other going for his handcuffs. Maybe I can fight off both of them, but I’m not about to hurt Zimmer. I knew his son from high school. He’s a good man.
But he’s in the position beneath Errol. And he’ll do whatever Errol says.