She looks younger. More vulnerable.
She stops when she sees me. Her fingers dig into the robe's fabric.
"They didn't touch me. Not like... not in that way. Just the hit. When they grabbed me."
Relief and rage war in my chest. "Okay."
"I need you to know that. I need everyone to know that."
"I believe you."
She finally looks at me. Her eyes are red. Swollen from crying. "I feel dirty anyway. Like I can still feel their hands on me."
I stand. Move toward her slowly. "You're safe now. I promise."
She doesn't back away.
I reach for her. Stop myself. "What do you need?"
She wraps her arms around herself. "Clothes. I need clothes. Can you... my closet is through there."
She points to a door on the left side of the room.
I walk toward it. Push it open.
Fuck.
It's not a closet. It's a room. A whole room dedicated to clothes.
Racks line the walls. Organized by color. Shoes displayed on shelves like art. Drawers labeled in neat handwriting.
"This is..." I turn back to look at her. "This is like a boutique."
She laughs. The sound is weak. Broken. But it's a laugh.
Thank God.
"I need guidelines," I tell her. "What am I looking for?"
"Something comfortable."
"I understand." I scan the racks. "Pants or dress?"
"Pants. And a sweater. The gray cashmere one. Third drawer on the right side."
I find the drawer. Pull it open. Multiple gray sweaters stare back at me.
"Which gray?"
"The light one. With the V-neck."
I grab it. The fabric is soft. I move to the pants section.
"Black leggings," she calls out. "Second rack. They're folded."
I find them. Grab a pair. "Underwear?"
"Top drawer. Left side. Any pair is fine."
