“Ohh, yeah, baby. You want this. I know you do.” I hear him unzip his pants, his free hand tearing at my clothing.
He lets go of my wrist to adjust himself between my legs, and I take the opportunity to strike. I punch him in the face, and for a moment, I have hope that I may get out of this situation yet. I reach for a desk nearby, trying to anchor myself away, but he’s on me again. He clasps my hair and thrashes my head against the floor.
Pain shoots through my skull, and my hands tingle, the fight—or at least the ability to fight—seeping out of me.
I feel him force my skirt up around my hips, my underwear too, and he bends my legs up, placing himself at my core.
I want to vomit.
I want to die and be free of this situation.
I never want to remember this night again.
Death would free me of this nightmare.
He rubs himself against me, and I open my eyes, maybe to say goodbye to the world I knew. The one I loved. The one I would miss.
Forever.
TWENTY-THREE
STEPHEN
The small talk is excruciating,and there’s no use pretending that Dallen’s parents are going to like me at the end of this dinner. For the past twenty minutes, we’ve said barely any words, certainly nothing substantial. Dallen will have to make a choice. Me or her family. Not that I’d ever tell her that she can’t have both, but when it comes to time with her family, I’ll not be present, and she needs to be okay with that. Certainly, her parents will be.
That’s the point of Delizioso tonight, even if I know it will fail. Neutral territory. My territory. A quiet, curated space where I can sit across from the Chief of Police and prove I’m not my father. Prove I’m not a headline waiting to happen.
Eight ten comes and goes with stilted conversation and untouched wine. Susan Byrne makes small talk about the restaurant décor. Chief Byrne studies the wine list as if it requires interrogation. I check my phone more times than I want to admit.
Dallen should be here by now.
At eight fifteen, I tell myself she’s caught in traffic. By eight twenty, a sick feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. By eight thirty, the lie stops comforting me, and I need to leave.
“Has she texted you?” Susan asks, trying for lightness but failing. There’s a tightness around her mouth I haven’t seen before, a mother’s instinct quietly surfacing.
“Yes. She said she was leaving at five past, but nothing since.” I keep my voice steady, but my thumb is already pressing her number again.
It rings.
And rings.
Straight to voicemail. My last message left unread.
Chief Byrne’s jaw shifts almost imperceptibly. He tries next. The line fails just as quickly.
“She always answers,” Susan says. It isn’t an accusation. It’s fear creeping in.
“She could be caught in traffic,” I reply automatically, though the words feel hollow even to me. Dallen wouldn’t ignore my text. She knows what this dinner means. She knows I’m stepping into a room where I’m already judged guilty.
Probably rightfully so, but that’s to worry about another time.
I stand, collecting my keys and wallet. “I’m going to head to her office. Make sure everything’s okay.”
Chief Byrne stands too, neither dramatic nor panicked. Just decisive. “I’ll come with you.” He turns to Susan. “You head home, just in case Dallen rings or heads there for whatever reason.”
We don’t speak as we leave the restaurant. We don’t debate whether we’re overreacting if something could be wrong. But something feels off. An intangible current that runs through a person, intuition, telling you to go, to check, just to be sure…
The drive to Dallen’s law firm is suffocating in its normalcy. Traffic lights change. Pedestrians cross. The city moves in ignorant rhythm while something claws up my spine. I try her again. Call. Text. Nothing. Not even left on read.
