“And the evidence you turned over pointed to me as the criminal?” he fired back.
Hewitt’s eyes went wide, his look a little wild. “Of course not.”
Bowie sucked his teeth. “You know he did this to me. You know it. He left his DNA all over me, and there’s video evidence.” The last word caught on a sob, but he quickly sucked it back in. “Still, when you said he gets to walk on some fucking technicality, some arbitrary fucking bullshit called diplomatic immunity, I said fine. I let it go and tried to move on with my life because you told me to. Now, they’re allowed to accusemeof filing a false police report?” Bowie’s voice cracked with some combination of sadness and righteous fury. “He’s following me, you know. Showing up at my dance studio, standing outside my apartment building. Just always watching me. But let me guess, can’t do anything about that either. Right? Do you wanna lock me up right now? Since apparently I’m the fucking criminal?”
The detective’s face was a distressing shade of purple, flushed all the way to the tips of his almost too small ears. “This is a very…unique situation, Bowie. This isn’t coming from me—us. It’s the DA’s office. We all believe you. We do. Our hands are tied.”
“He’s ruining my life!” Bowie shouted, throwing the balled up piece of paper—presumably the letter received from Mr. Diplomatic-Immunity’s attorney.
Hewitt’s voice sounded desperate. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll increase patrols around your apartment and I’ll go talk to him myself and tell him to back off. Okay?”
The boy scoffed, tears filling his eyes. “Yeah, sure. Whatever. Because if he doesn’t, you’ll write him a strongly worded letter? Terrifying.”With that, he turned, taking a few steps towards the door before saying, “If he kills me, my blood is on your hands.” Then he was gone, leaving the bullpen full of detectives and administrative people staring after him in stunned silence. Javier found himself staring, too.
Whoever had hurt Bowie Baker deserved to be punished, yet not only was he not being punished, he was apparently free to just keep re-victimizing him. Javier was very familiar with those tactics. It was why he stood outside the room during Annabelle’s interview. It was why he’d escort her to court. It was why there was always somebody outside her house. So her attacker knew she had an army on her side. One willing to go to war for her if necessary.
Nobody would be going to war for Bowie Baker.
The idea twisted something inside him. Before he could think much more about it, the door swung open and Annabelle emerged, pigtails swinging, her eyes staring at her sparkly boots. Javier dropped down beside her, careful not to touch her. “Hey, you ready to go?”
She gave a hesitant nod.
“She did great. I don’t think we’ll have to do anymore sessions here. From now on, it will most likely just be meetings with the lawyers. Please tell her grandmother I do recommend sticking with the strict counseling schedule we agreed on in the beginning. It does help.”
Javier nodded. “I’ll relay the message.”
Annabelle’s grandmother worked two jobs, making it impossible for her to drive her to the numerous appointments that came with being the victim of a violent crime. Doctors, lawyers, cops. It was a grueling process, one nobody should be forced to endure after surviving an attack or assault, least of all an eight year old. The guys took turns making sure Annabelle got where she needed to go. It was all part of the gig.
Once they’d made it out of the unit, down the elevator, and through the lobby, Annabelle’s hand slid into Javier’s, her body moving closer to his leg. Javier squeezed her hand. “I got you, little mama. Nobody’s gonna hurt you on my watch. Okay?”
She nodded but didn’t release her death grip on his hand. He clicked the lock on his Charger, opening the back door for Annabelle and making sure she put her seatbelt on. He was walking to the driver’s side door when he saw him sitting on the bench outside the building, staring at nothing.
Bowie Baker.
Javier mouthed the boy’s name before he caught himself staring, shaking his head. He dropped into the driver’s seat but didn’t start the car. He couldn’t. He opened the center console, rummaging for the cards he carried for the volunteer program. His name was printed on it along with his cell phone number.
He jumped out of the car before he could change his mind, hurrying towards the sad boy on the bench. His head snapped up, eyes wide and fearful, as Javier approached. He slowed his walk, holding his hands up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to run up on you like that. I’m not going to hurt you. I just wanted to give you this. My cell phone’s on the back. We can help you.”
The boy’s fear turned into another scowl, but Javier didn’t say anything more, just returned to the car. He didn’t want to leave Annabelle on her own for more than a minute. “Wanna go through the drive-thru and grab an ice cream?” he asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.The small girl pondered the question before giving a hesitant nod. “Alright. We’ll grab one for yourabuela, too.”
He pulled away from the curb, his gaze dragging back to the boy on the bench one final time. Would he call? Javier laughed at himself. Why the hell did Javier even give a shit?
Bowie laid on his twin bed, staring at the business card. Javier de la Fuente. He’d traced his finger over the slightly raised letters until the thick paper itself had grown soft. Bowie didn’t think of himself as a snob. He’d grown up strictly middle class. Most of his friends were dancers, who came from all walks of life.
Still, when he’d seen the man rushing towards him, his first instinct had been to run. He hadn’t thought he was a knee-jerk reaction type person. Maybe he wasn’t two weeks ago. He wasn’t a lot of things two weeks ago.
Looking at the card made him feel guilty. When Bowie had seen him in the station, he’d assumed he was a criminal, which in retrospect made no sense. Then when he’d rushed towards Bowie out on the street, he’d irrationally thought he had been sent by…him. It was stupid. Especially when it seemed like all he’d wanted to do was help.
Bowie tapped the edge of the card against his lip. Javier didn’t look like a helper. He looked like the kind of person you might run across in a dark alley. He had a skull tattooed across his throat, directly under his chin, a pistol on either side. He’d worn long sleeves, but he had roses tattooed on both hands and something printed on his fingers. Bowie could only imagine the ink that lay beneath his clothes. Except, he shouldn’t be imagining anything. He needed to focus on the clusterfuck that was his life.
But he couldn’t stop.
Javier de la Fuente was an easy way to disassociate and much more relaxing than thinking of the man trying to torch his whole life. He was tired of feeling like a victim. Even if that was what Javier’s card said. Victim Advocate. Technically, it said Child Victim Advocate. Javier protected child victims.
Bowie had turned down a rape advocate at the hospital, but she hadn’t looked anything like Javier. She’d been a middle-aged woman with an almost too friendly smile and sad eyes. He didn’t want anybody else looking at him with sad eyes because it made him feel like the whole world knew what happened to him. He was tired of it. He wanted his old life back where the worst thing he had to worry about was paying rent and making it to principal before his time ran out. He wasn’t getting any younger.
Being attacked had been really inconvenient for his dance career. The assault permeated every aspect of his life. Nobody thought about the appointments with attorneys and doctors and police officers. Missing work. The mental stress of worrying about whether you were going to lose your job as well as your dignity and your safety. Gillian was polite and understanding, but she had a company to run. And dance didn’t stand still for anybody. Especially not a soloist with imperfect turnout.
After the police had told him the DA wouldn’t be pressing charges—that they couldn’t even if they wanted to—he’d been disgusted and furious, but part of him was relieved he’d never have to speak about it again. Not to lawyers or judges. He’d never have to look at his attacker’s face in court. He could just forget about it. Put it in a box on a high shelf in his brain and try to convince himself it never happened. But now, all of those things were back on the table, only, somehow, he was the villain.
