The document title screamed at me in large, bold Times New Roman font.
SETTLEMENT AGREEMENT
“You want me to settle,” I said dumbly.
“We believe this is the best course of action for both parties,” said Ruiz.
I snorted. “No, thebestcourse of action would be foryourclient”—I jabbed my finger in the direction of the attorney—“to spend a significant amount of time behind bars for what he did to me.”
The men shared a look and a light chuckle. “That will never happen,” Chadwick said.
That’s what I’d been afraid of. And since this prick was the lead detective on the case, it seemed he was willing to do whatever it took to keep my abuser out of jail.
Ryan’s family was rich, so this didn’t shock me. Obviously, Chadwick was in the families’ pocket, and he’d do what was needed to make this all go away and spare their boy’s precious reputation.
“This needs to go through my attorney,” I said at last.
My attorney didn’t work for some highly sought after firm, nor had she represented any high-profile clients. But she’d believed me when I shared my story, and had taken care with my feelings and opinions, always giving me the choice before we made any moves, never pressuring me into anything.
That had been enough for me.
“Of course,” Ruiz said.
I nodded, then stood, wiping my clammy palms on my sweats; they’d arrived unexpectedly, catching me at a disadvantage in so many aspects, least of all being my comfy clothes while they both wore suits.
“Now get out of my house.”
They were gone within moments. I collapsed on the couch, dropped my head into my hands, and sobbed.
Though I’d wound up telling my attorney about Chadwick and Ruiz’s visit, we’d ultimately decided, after a long talk, not to pursue any action against them. The settlement agreement wasgoodconsidering what it was: an escape hatch for Ryan, an easy way to make the problem (me) go away without dragging his name through the mud. Which, in my opinion, was the least he’d deserved.
But based on these articles, he’d died not long after I’d signed the agreement and that news had been made public.
What I couldn’t figure out now was how whoever had sent this figured out I’d been the Jane Doe named in the initial legal proceedings.
I continued flipping through the articles. Back then, I hadn’t paid any attention to the media coverage, too focused on holding myself together to care about anything outside of the bubble I’d formed around myself. I’d never seenanyof this.
Finally, I reached the bottom of the stack, unearthing a plain white index card with five words written on it in thick, black marker, matching the handwriting from the front of the envelope.
ASK HIM WHAT HE DID.
Askwho?
I flipped it over, but the lined side was blank. So I began sifting through the articles again, searching for any indication of who this mysterioushecould be.
Whoever sent this did so operating under the assumption that I would know exactly who they meant. Reclining back against the short, cinder block wall that separated my row of bunks from the one over, I closed my eyes, doing that thing where I could think better when I couldn’t see.
Askhim.
Askhimwhat he did.
Wait.
Is this person, with this stack of articles and ominous index card, suggesting Ryan’s death hadn’t been as accidental as the papers suggested?
And in that case,whowould have a grudge against him big enough to do something as insane askillhim?
“No,” I said out loud in a whisper. “No no no no no.”
