I wiggle my index finger under the seal and rip along the fold. A jagged piece of the flap flutters to the damp tile floor. The envelope is ready to spill its guts. Even before I pull out the picture, I know what it will be. Who it will be.
How did she know to follow me? Or did she just happen upon us, taking a picture in case she wanted to blackmail me?
The image is not what I expected. There are no faces. No way to know definitively that it is us. But she knows I know. That’s enough. Lucas’s hand hovers over my lower back as he escorts me from the Rotterdam Room. I squint down at the image. He wasn’t touching me, but you can’t tell from the angle. The picture was taken from within the bar. How had I not seen her?
The restroom door opens and a preschooler in pigtails runs in chanting about sprinkles and whipped cream. A young woman in impossibly short shorts comes laughing in behind her.
I slide the picture back into the eviscerated envelope and wave my hand under the paper towel dispenser. Ripping off a long sheet, I place it under the tap and then pat my cheeks, forehead, and neck. The coolness tingles against my hot skin.
My whole body aches with what I need to tell Clint and what Erika will tell us next.
I return to the table. They sit slumped on the same side of the booth. Erika’s head rests on her dad’s broad shoulder.
Clint glances up at me. “I didn’t get you any ice cream.”
I awkwardly bump in on the other side of the table. “Fine. Wasn’t really hungry.”
Clint grins down at the top of Erika’s head. She looks so young cuddled up to him. “That’s the thing. We decided we were. We ordered burgers and fries. Blizzards will come later. We weren’t sure what you were up for.”
“Burgers?” There is the tone again, but the thought of food makes me want to vomit.
“Yeah, burgers.” As he looks at me, his face loses its mirth.
A blue-clad employee pushes two trays onto the table and then grabs the plastic numbered tent.
My stomach lurches at the smell of grease. But instead of wanting to empty itself, it moans with hunger. I had a nice dinner last night and don’t often eat breakfast, so I shouldn’t feel as ravenous as I suddenly do.
“Here you go.” Erika empties half her fry sleeve onto a napkin and pushes it over to me.
“Thanks.” I pop a warm, salty fry in my mouth. My stomach growls. I follow up with two more. Wow. Delicious. I glance at the registers.
“You want to go order?” Clint asks.
A couple large families with wound-up preschoolers tumble into the lobby. “In a minute.”
Clint shifts his focus. “Erika, your mom and I are out of our depth here. You’ve got to tell us what’s going on.” He takes a bite of his burger, oozing with ketchup, and uses his thumb to keep the lettuce from sliding out. His jaws appear to be wrestling with the food instead of eating it. This all must be a brilliant ruse to keep it casual without the pressure of school or home.
“I’d just had enough. I didn’t plan it. He just needed to be stopped.” Erika takes a bite of her burger. The apparent ease with which she’s now speaking gives me whiplash. It’s as if she’s decided this part of the story, this part of her life, she’ll allow us to see. “Full disclosure, I wasn’t the one who filmed it. You can tell by the angle. But I did share it.” Her eyebrows race to her hairline as if she’s daring us to accuse her.
“Can we see it?” I ask. Either she can show us now or Clint and I will find it later.
She seems to come to the same conclusion and places the phone in the middle of the table. The video starts with a shaky frame—the shoulder of Erika’s light-pink fleece and a few strands of blonde hair drift into view. A young man with close-cropped black hair and aheavy jaw comes into focus. Has to be Danny Doward. He stands rigid in front of a student desk, his broad frame looming over a skinny teen slumped low in his chair. The classroom is quiet at first, the audio too low to catch the words, but then the voice—sharp, female—is unmistakably Erika’s. There’s a sudden swell of noise—students jeering, chairs scraping. Danny’s posture shifts, his stance morphing from aggression to shock to something sharper. Anger. His eyes lock on the camera. He stomps forward, his face twisting. His massive hand blurs as it shoots forward. Suddenly we’re looking at the scuffed linoleum and the toe of a white sneaker—then the screen cuts to black.
I fall back into my seat. Had Dr. Singh even watched the video?
“I couldn’t hear. What were you saying?” Clint blinks a few times as if trying to clear the video from his eyes.
“I, uh, it wasn’t clean. You don’t get all of it in the video, but I swore at him and called him a bully. And then at that point, you can’t really hear everything I say, but I accused him of being a predator.”
“A predator?” Clint says the word slowly.
“Yeah. The video stops because he tries to grab it and then it’s just footage of the floor.”
“Why a predator?” I ask, not really wanting the answer. Calling her beautiful in the hallway was creepy; I can’t stomach thinking it could be more than that.
“He seemed the type, but honestly, he looked confused when I said it. I don’t know.”
Clint wipes his mouth. “So, you were protecting another kid. I appreciate that.” He glances at me. “We appreciate that. You met this man at a party?”
