“That’s understandable, but—and excuse me if this sounds rude—isn’t it time to let the girl get on with her life? She was wrong not to contact the cops earlier, but she’s finally done that. And though maybe she hasn’t remembered or presented every detail perfectly, the bottom line is that the past eight years have been a shit show for her, and she needs some closure.”
Her comment smarts, but I let it go. I sign off saying I appreciate her taking the time to talk.
The call over, I flop onto the bed and stare up at the carved plaster medallion. Maybe my theory about the date of the attackiswrong and I’m being totally unfair to someone who suffered an indescribable trauma. And as Morgan said, the bruises on her neck were proof of the date.
I jump back off the bed and return to my laptop, typing, “What are the stages of a bruise?” into the search bar. A bunch of links pop up, and I open the first one, to an article on WebMD.
As a bruise heals, the piece says, the hemoglobin in the blood breaks down to other compounds and the color gradually changes. It’s red for a couple of days after the injury and then converts to purplish or black and blue. After five to ten days, the bruise finally turns green or yellow and then eventually a light brown.
So, if Rileywereattacked five or six days earlier, the bruise might have been purplish on the following Monday, instead of red, but it’s possible it looked fresh to an untrained eye offered only a glimpse. Meaning my earlier deduction could be right. By the time Riley spoke to Morgan, she might have been living with the rape for nearly a week.
She must have suffered horribly during that time, reliving the assault in her mind and how close she’d come to dying, and also terrified she might be pregnant. Unwilling to confide in her parents or seek professional help, had she unburdened herself to a friend at the college then? If so, that person would know the truth about the date.
A thought stirs in me. If she told someone other than Morgan, does that matter in a way I can’t see? The only one with answers is Riley,which means I’m going to have to find a way to speak to her alone—and get her to open up.
I check the time. I’m now seriously late for breakfast, and I decide to skip it altogether, which is for the best anyway. Staring across the table at Logan will only add to my anguish about my betrayal.
??Sorry, I can’t get away now after all,??I text.
A reply comes within seconds.
Is everything okay?
Yes, just something I need to check out. I’ll fill you in later.
There’s no point in sharing anything until I know more.
I return to my laptop and find my way to a website for Hilary Brown, who turns out to have her own boutique law firm in Loudonville, a town probably twenty-five minutes away. It appears to specialize in contracts, meaning she’s out of her comfort zone advising Riley. But she might be doing it as a favor for someone Riley knows.
I dial the number expecting to reach a receptionist, but I get voicemail instead. I take a breath and speak.
“Hi, Ms. Brown, it’s Bree Winter. I’m heading back to South America soon, and I wonder if I could touch base with you briefly before I leave. Logan and I really appreciate your help in this situation, and Riley’s, too, needless to say.”
I’m using her to get to Riley, which isn’t very nice, but it’s the only way to have a shot at the real story.
I give it fifteen minutes, but Hilary doesn’t call back, so I finally take a shower with the phone on the sink once again and then dress for the day. While I wait in the bedroom, still praying to hear from her, I open my emails to see if Chip Conway has sent the link to the archive yet—and I’m startled to spot an email from Sebastian, sent late yesterday. We generally communicate only via WhatsApp when we’re not together.
“Thoughts,” the subject line read.Thoughts?Is he about to share a concern about our relationship, based on how elusive I’ve been this week? God, what if he sensed I was going to cheat on him even before I did?
I open the email and nervously start to read.
Bree, hi. I decided to put some thoughts in an email since WhatsApp seemed like the wrong place.
I realized since we spoke that I’ve been pestering you every day for updates, but I see now how hard it must be to give them with all that’s going on. This is such a terrible time for you,cariño, and things seem to be in constant flux. You have to stay focused on the situation there and make sure you learn the truth. Call if you need any moral support but otherwise don’t feel you have to take me through everything right now. You can share when you get home, and I will be eager to hear and provide whatever support I can. I’m sending you all my love.
And Poco sends his love, too.
My stomach pricks almost painfully with remorse. The man I’ve violated has been thinking only of me, sensing from five thousand miles away how tough it is to be both living this nightmare and sharing it over the phone.
Adding to my misery, I can picture him on thegaleríaas he wrote the email, drinking an espresso and sometimes glancing out at the fields with his deep-brown eyes.
I’ve no clue yet how to deal with what I’ve done, but I reply to the email right away.
Thank you for understanding, Bas, and sorry to just be responding now. I haven’t been checking email. How is your cold? Did you get the voicemail about my flights?
A reply comes almost immediately.
Yes, sorry on my end, too,cariño. My cold leveled me most of the day and I was in bed by nine. But much better now. Can’t wait for Sunday.
