“And do those phrases hold special meaning to you?”
I put a hand to my throat, rubbing against my skin as I swallow. The words stick there, even when I cough to get them out.
“Take your time. There’s no rush.”
I nod, closing my eyes and frowning, everything inside my brain getting hectic. Images skate across my inside eye, flashes of men, equipment, lighting.
My so-called uncle sitting on a bed covered in a black sheet, patting the space next to him, the space right in the centre frame of the waiting camera. His body naked except for a small towel draped across his lap.
A sob comes out of my mouth, and I hate how weak it makes me sound. I’m furious at the thought this woman who looks barely older than I am will think I’m an emotional basket case. Incapable of even explaining what she wants, why she’s frightened.
I clench my hand into a fist until the nails dig into my palm, dig so deep they draw blood.
“There was an investigation… involving me… years ago.”
The tiny phrases tear out of me in fits and starts, like they’re being dug out of my flesh in tiny little strips. The first phase in a procedure that will strip me back to the bone.
“It went to trial and everything, so it should be in your records.”
“Okay. Can I take your name?”
“Fenn. Rosalie Fenn, no middle name.”
She types away at her computer for far longer than it should take to bring up a single file. After tapping in endless keystrokes, she frowns at the screen, slowly rolling the mouse down to read further while my heart tries to thump its way through my ribcage, beating a path to freedom.
The silence grows into a smothering blanket, stealing my air. In a panic, I blurt, “We heard he got out of prison, even though he’s got years left on his sentence. Then the first card showed up and now… this one…”
I choke to a stop, moving my hand so it no longer circles my throat but presses against my chest. The heel of my palm digs against my sternum. The pain from that and the trenches I’ve dug with the fingernails of my opposite hand are the only things keeping me from outright panic.
The pain is soothing. I let my mind float along in its current for a while, drifting but inevitably finding a way back to shore.
“There’s a sealed record from your childhood,” the officer says with an apologetic smile. “Usually, I’d be able to see more details.”
“It went to court,” I say, not sure how that information will help but wanting to try. “There’s a conviction. Do I have to… I don’t know, with name suppression, do I have to fill out paperwork to…?”
I trail off, not sure where I was going. My panic dissolves into a feeling of stupidity.
This is stupid. I’m stupid. No one’s going to help. Did I expect the police to park a car outside in case I get a papercut from a silly card?
“Sorry about this,” the woman says, standing. “I’ll need to phone a colleague. I’m not sure why I don’t have access. Can I grab you a cup of tea or coffee? Or a soft drink?”
Coffee but I’m already shaking. Another dose of caffeine will send me into orbit.
“A lemonade? Or water. Water’s fine.”
“I’ll be right back.”
The sound of the door closing behind me sends me into another tailspin. I’d rather be sat back in the waiting room with my fidgets drawing glowering eyes than sitting here with just my own company. I stand, pacing the room from side to side, counting out the steps before repeating with the largest stride I can, and again with mincingly small ones.
“Here you go,” the officer says, opening the door with her shoulder while she hands me a cup of lemonade soda with her right hand and juggles an overstuffed manila folder with her left. “Sorry for the wait.”
“That’s fine,” I say, taking a sip and letting the bubbles fizz across my tongue. “I’m not in a hurry.”
“I spoke to the department of corrections, and they’ve confirmed your assailant was paroled four months ago.”
My throat clutches, the mouthful of lemonade trapped until it releases. By the time I can swallow, my eyes water and I put the cup down. “Why didn’t anyone…? Shouldn’t there have been a hearing? We weren’t even told he was eligible for parole.”
“I’m sorry. The woman I spoke to said they didn’t have a notification form. There’s specific paperwork that victims need to complete to be—”
