There’s too much blood on me for a cloth, so I shower it off before I dress, doing everything as quickly as possible so I can get back to her.
The sheets carry traces of Andy’s blood where it smudged from my body. Since they’re already stained, I drape them over his corpse, so I don’t have to stare at it any longer. Don’t have to look at the one eye staring blankly at the ceiling and the other lost in a crushed dent filled with blood.
Then I’m out of there, dialling my phone as I sit next to Rosa, pulling our chairs close together so I can hold her with one arm while I grip my device with the other.
“Zach?” I run down what happened as quickly as possible, then ring off after he promises to call anyone else we need. Rosa has her knees curled to her chest, balancing on the edge of the chair.
Bruises are spotted along her arms where Andy grabbed her to restrain her, on her hips where I held her, around her neck and wrists where the twist ties bit into her flesh.
My mind shies away from what happened, how it felt to be trapped in the chair as I slowly, far too slowly, worked out that the drama playing out before me wasn’t sticking to the script.
I’ve never experienced such helplessness and such overwhelming fury. The rage growing as he laid out Rosa’s past, the terrors forced upon her as a child.
My chest still holds the dull ache of realisation, that what I’d asked of her—the request I thought should be so easy—was a mirror to the worst part of her childhood, dredging those horrendous memories from the murky waters of her past into her present.
I can’t stand to see Rosa shaking and lift her, pulling her into my lap, cuddling her close to me. Her scant weight reassuring against my legs.
Much as I hate what Andy put her through, I can’t feel the same regret for my actions after. Not when it touched me so deeply, so profoundly that I won’t ever be the same again.
“We can go home soon. A few friends will be by to help with cleaning up the bedroom, then we can go.” I hesitate. “Nobody’s coming in to work here this afternoon, are they?”
She shakes her head, then leans it against me, one hand curled up next to her cheek.
“I’ll have a doctor come to the house to check you out. Make sure there’s no lasting damage.”
“Won’t they have to report everything?”
“Not the one I’ll call. She won’t tell anybody about anything.” I wait for a second before adding, “Not unless you want her to.”
“He’s dead, right?”
I drop a kiss on the top of her head, one arm around her trembling shoulders. “He’s dead.”
“I should’ve checked him out better.” She sobs, whole body shaking with the effort. “He said he’d worked with a colleague, and he knew our address, knew where to come. When I met him, he greeted me like he’d met me before, and I felt embarrassed because I didn’t recognise him.” She hits at her knee with a fist. “I’m so stupid. After everything, I can’t believe I let him just walk into my work without asking for proof ofanything.”
“You’re not stupid just because he fooled you. He’s probably studied every inch of your life. Knew everything about you. That’s not something you automatically think of when you meet someone.”
“But I—”
“And it was before we found the cameras, wasn’t it? So, you weren’t even on alert. Unless he had craft supplies on him, I don’t think you can blame this one on yourself.”
“Every time Mum asks, I always tell her I’m being safe. I thought I was smarter than this.”
I could reiterate that it’s not her intelligence in question, but I’m struck by another part of her speech. “You talk to your mum about this work?” And then another. “I thought you were in foster care.”
She curls into an even tighter ball. It’s like I have a small child on my lap rather than a grown woman. “My mum’s sick. Cancer. She got to a point she couldn’t take care of me, so I went into the system for a while.” Then she slaps me. About as effective as a moth batting its wings considering she’s still weak. “And why shouldn’t I tell my mother about my work. Don’t you talk to your dad about yours?”
“Fuck, no. I tell him the least amount possible about my life just like any other normal teenager.”
She snorts out a laugh and I’m overtaken with relief; I want to roar with happiness. She sounds okay. Moving and talking and laughing and joking.
I didn’t destroy her. Haven’t ruined our fledgling friendship.
“If you’re calling yourself normal, I’m gonna have to write to the dictionary and get them to update their description of the word.”
“Harsh.”
“But fair.”
