We drive in tense silence, Chase processing what I just told him, me trying not to fall apart.
"Jackson loves you," he says finally. "I've known for a while. The way he looks at you, the way he is around you. And now this. He went after the man who hurt you."
"He could go to jail, Chase. He could lose everything because of me."
"Because he loves you. There's a difference."
Two hours later, we’re here. Pinewood police station isexactly as I remember from when I came here to file my rape report. Sterile, cold, fluorescent lights that make everything look washed out and wrong.
Officer Monroe meets us at the front desk. She's in her forties, dark hair pulled back, expression neutral.
"Ms. Rivera. Mr. Anderson's lawyer is here. You can see him once processing is complete."
"What happened?"
"Mr. Anderson assaulted Dr. Richard Carson at Pinewood Memorial Hospital. Several witnesses, security footage. Dr. Carson is being treated for his injuries now."
"How bad?"
"Broken nose, fractured orbital bone, possible concussion. Could've been worse if security hadn't pulled Mr. Anderson off him."
I sink into one of the plastic chairs lining the wall. Chase sits beside me, hand on my shoulder.
Jackson beat him, actually beat him, put him in the hospital.
For me. Because I told him what Carson did.
"Can I see him?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Once he's processed. Probably another hour."
So I wait, because that's all I can do. Chase, though, steps outside to call Emma and explain that her brother has been arrested. He won't mention the rape; that's something I need to do.
I still can't believe that Jackson did this, threw away everything for me, and I have no idea if I should be grateful or furious or terrified of what comes next.
All I know is that the man I love is sitting in a cell somewhere in this building because he couldn't stand the thought of my rapist walking free, and that's either the most romantic or the most reckless thing anyone has ever done for me.
Maybe it's both.
29
JACKSON
Ifind him in the third-floor hallway of Pinewood Memorial Hospital, walking toward the elevators like he doesn't have a care in the world.
Dr. Richard Carson. Fifty-two years old, according to the hospital directory, Head of Emergency Medicine, respected and accomplished.
Rapist.
He's in his white coat, pristine and pressed, phone in hand. Probably texting his wife, probably planning dinner, probably not thinking about the woman whose life he imploded.
"Dr. Carson."
He turns, looks at me with mild curiosity. "Can I help you?"
"You raped Maya Rivera."
The curiosity vanishes. His expression goes blank. "I'm sorry, who?"
