The inaction sets me on edge, and I resist the urge to flex my fingers with unspent aggression.
It’s a miracle that she’s allowing me to sit by her at all. After the cruel things I said to her yesterday, she has every right to punish me, even if I was trying to protect her.
But my sweet, gentle Abigail has practically been wrapped around me for nearly twenty-four hours, as though she can’t bear to put an inch of distance between us.
If she wants to cling to me, I’ll gladly oblige her. I’ll never reject her touch again.
The doorbell rings, and she draws in a shuddering breath. Then she squares her shoulders and stands to answer the door.
I accompany her, my hand glued to hers.
A police officer stands at the threshold, her bearing bold and official. Her rich umber skin is slightly creased with years of experience, and her stance conveys confidence and authority. Her brown eyes flick from Abigail to me.
I carefully summon up my genial mask, fixing my features in a polite but concerned expression.
The officer seems to buy it, and her attention returns to Abigail. “I’m Officer Johnson. You’re Abigail Graham?”
She nods. “Yes, I’m the one who called to make a report. Please, come in.”
I note that her partner has remained in the car that’s parked at the curb—a man. Given the nature of Abigail’s report, I’m grateful for the officer’s tact. A strange man’s presence might make this too difficult for her.
Officer Johnson follows us into the living room, and Abigail motions for her to sit in the armchair across from the couch.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” she asks, a gracious hostess. “We have tea or lemonade.”
The officer shakes her head and pulls out a notepad. “No, thank you. Please, take a seat.”
Abigail and I sit down on the couch, her hand still firmly in mine. I brush my thumb over her palm in a silent promise of support, and her stiff posture relaxes slightly.
“You want to make a report about your uncle, Jeffrey Zillman,” the officer begins, making a quick note. “Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Abigail confirms.
“Do you think there are any children at immediate risk of harm?”
Abigail falters. “I…I’m not sure. There are other children who live on the same property; there are houses for the groundskeepers and their families.”
Officer Johnson makes another note. “Where is the property you’re referring to?”
Abigail swallows hard, as though bracing herself to talk about the nightmarish place where she was raised.
“Elysium. It’s a plantation about an hour’s drive from here.”
“So, it’s within the state of South Carolina?”
“Yes. I think there are about half a dozen families living there. It’s isolated and completely closed to the public.” Her cheeks have gone pale. “I’m not sure how many children might be at risk.”
The officer makes another note. “There’s no statute of limitations for child sexual abuse in South Carolina, so if you’re able to provide enough evidence yourself, we’ll have cause to investigate. We can obtain a warrant and search the property. If we’re able to press charges, you’ll be included. Are you prepared for that?”
“I am,” my brave wife replies staunchly. “I’ll do everything in my power to get my uncle locked away.”
The officer fixes her with a level stare, but her voice is gentle. “The process will be very difficult for you. If this goes to trial, you’ll have to give evidence in court. Your credibility willbe questioned. The evidence has to support your story, or he won’t be convicted. Even then, there’s a chance of a not-guilty verdict. You can always take civil action, but you need to prepare yourself for the potential outcomes.”
Abigail’s palm begins to sweat, but I keep my careful hold on her.
I’m barely maintaining my human mask. The prospect of Abigail going through all that pain just for her uncle to walk free is enough to make me see red. That motherfucker is going to pay for what he did to her.
I’ll make sure of it if the law fails her.
