“I know,” Belle agreed. “But imagine waking up like that, half naked, with leaves and bugs in your hair and... blood and bruises on your thighs.”
Tom was aghast. “Oh, shit.”
“Fuuuuck,” Jules breathed. “We need to make sure she hasn’t been injured.” He caught himself. “I mean, physically, worse than the obvious. Like, is she still bleeding, you know, um, between her, uh, legs?”
“It’s called vaginally,” Belle said sharply. “Is she bleeding vaginally. Vagina’s a real, scientific, medical word that all the boys and girls can use.”
“Yeah, it’s just kinda outside my personal wheelhouse,” Jules said. “So okay, let me try that again:Isshe bleeding vaginally?”
“I don’t know,” Belle admitted. “I’m not suresheknows. I don’t think she wants to look.”
“We really should take her to the hospital,” Jules said. “There’s a thing called a rape kit that they can use to?—”
“Prove what? What happens then?” Belle crossed her arms as she interrupted him. “When it’s confirmed that yes, she had sex with some boy or God, maybe even boys, plural, and everyone, including—especially!—the police goesOoh but she was drinkingandOoh look what she was wearingand then eventually landing onBoys will be boys. And nothing happens except now Shel’s forevermorethatgirl. And not in the good Marlo Thomas way.”
In the silence that followed, Jules glanced at Tom who met his eyes and spoke aloud what they both were thinking. “But that’s not right.”
“No shit,” Belle said. “Remember Caroline Russo?” she asked Tom, before telling Jules, “She was a senior last year. She didn’t graduate with her class because something like this happened to her. She said she was raped at some stupid party but she couldn’t prove it and she ended up dropping out or, I don’t know, transferring, maybe?Aftershe tried to kill herself. No thank you. If it was me, I would conveniently notremember anything either, and just pray to God that my rapist wore a condom and I don’t get pregnant or some shitty STD.”
Jules felt sick. How could that be okay? To just pretend a crime hadn’t been committed?
“How can we help her?” Tom asked. “What can we do, you know, besides find who did this and fucking kill him?”
How had Tom described Belle on the ride over?Clem-load-the-shotgun mad.It was clear he’d reached that same level of helpless, white-hot anger.
But they weren’t helpless. Not entirely. “But why don’t we?” Jules asked Tom and Belle both. “Find whoever did this? Maybe not so much with the kill-him part, but... Someone knows something. Let’s freaking find him.”
Belle didn’t hesitate. “Hell, yeah,” she said. “Let’s get our Nancy Drew on.”
“But first,” Jules said, “let me go in and see Shelly, because maybe, even if she doesn’t want to talk to her mom, she’ll talk to mine.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Present Day
Sherman Oaks, California
Mission Day Two
While Jules was in the shower, Sam sat down to a very unsatisfying breakfast of Cheerios and toast—washed down with the very last half-mug of coffee in the house.
There was for damn sure a stop in their immediate future for a far more venti cup, and probably a pre-lunch sandwich, too.
This day was looking to be a long one.
Yesterday evening, post-pizza, they’d gotten back to work, reaching out again to Devonshire’s three previous housekeepers—all of whom were home and happy to chat. The most recent of them—both Paula and Cathy—confirmed what Rene had told Jules that afternoon. Thatthe library was used as Dead Milt’s bedroom,andthat there were no files or stacks of scripts in the house that they were aware of.
However Helen, who’d worked at Devonshire Place for most of her life, told a different story. Back in her day, both Milts, young and old, had bedrooms upstairs. The library was elder Milt’s office and it was filled with scripts and overflowing file cabinets. And yes, Mr. D had both a calendar and an address book. Leather bound and kept in the top drawer of his desk.
She’d let Sam know—he’d won the job of calling her—that she hadn’t left her job by choice back when Dead Milt had a stroke three years ago. Apparently the old man’s condition required medically-trained staff, so she would have been redundant and was let go. She was pretty damn bitter about it, even after all these years. Which made sense—the estate had been her home, too. She’d lived on site, and she’d had to move out. In some haste, apparently.
It was another piece of information to add to his Ernest-Harper-was-a-soulless-piece-of-shit file.
But judgment of the lawyer aside, Helen’s info had made hope bloom in Sam’s heart. If Dead Milt’s desk was still in the library it was possible his calendar and address book were in there, just waiting for them to pull open that top drawer and flip their way to the J-for-Johnsons.
Recognizing a potentially case-breaking clue when he heard one, Sam had asked and been told that the desk was huge and heavy, made of solid oak. It was unlikely that it had been moved from the library because of that. Also, according to Helen,Where else in the house would they put it?
So that was a win of sorts.
