“And your friend? Does she know you’re here?”
Jolie’s chin wobbled. More tears fell. “They raped her. I saw them that night before they took her away to a room. She could barely walk. I know their faces. I might have been drunk and involved with another boy, but I remember them. I saw them. When they showed the boys on the news, I knew.”
She had yet to reference Navid, so I pushed in another direction.
“Did you go to the hospital that night?”
“Yes. Before we came here. When Bastian found out what happened, he insisted, but the doctor…” Jolie picked her cuticles and chewed her lip. Twin rivers rolled in crooked lines down her cheeks. “It was him. From the news.”
“Navid Kordestani.”
“Yes. I did not know his name before I saw it on TV. He might have told us, but I forgot. He was… unkind. Uncaring. Gigi was terrified. He wanted to examine her. Demanded it. Said it was procedure. She refused. He scared her, and…”
I could only imagine how a young teen might feel in the presence of a much older male doctor after having been assaulted. Why hadn’t a nurse stepped in?
“Your friend. Her name is Gigi?”
Jolie nodded, and a sad smile touched her lips. “Gigi et Jolie, les jumeaux. That’s what they called us at school. We were best friends from second grade. Inseparable until this happened. Then she changed. She pushed me away.”
“Does she have a last name?”
“Oui. Sauvage.”
I wrote it down. Jolie and Bastian Aubert. Gigi Sauvage.
“Does Gigi know you’re here?”
“No.” More tears fell. A tremor in her voice. She seemed about to speak when a door banged open at the far side of the bullpen, interrupting us.
Jolie turned as I glanced up.
Yates flew into the room like a hurricane, energy and animosity aimed in my direction, but he ground to a halt the second his gaze landed on the teen sitting beside my desk. All the color drained from his face. It was clear that despite the passing of three years, he recognized Jolie.
And Jolie recognized him.
She flew from her chair, mittens and hat tumbling to the floor, ivory cheeks aflame. “Esti de porc.” The teen shook her head, features contorted with disgust. “You killed her.” The accusation came out laced with venom. “It’s your fault. You had one job. Va te faire enculer.”
“I know.” Yates held up his hands in self-defense, flashing his gaze at me like he expected to be saved.
I had no fucking idea what was going on.Killed who?
Before I could ask or calm Jolie down, the once quavering teen launched across the room and barreled bodily into Yates. She screamed and slammed her fists against his chest. “You fuck. You killed her.”
“I know,” he shouted, backing up unsuccessfully, arms in the air.
“She died because of you.”
“I know.”
“We were not whores. We did nothing wrong. We were children.”
“I know.”
The abuse intensified. Yates tried to defend himself, but Jolie slapped and kicked and spat in his face. She tore at his clothes and raked her nails down his cheeks. Anything she could grab hold of was fair game.
The startled constable frantically backed away, dodging and blocking her attack. The whole while, he repeated, “I know. I know. I know.”
Jolie chased him around the bullpen as Yates hollered, “Stop. I tried to fix it.”
